BARRY   GORDON 


They  spent  enchanted  hours  on  that  far  flat  roof 

in  Beni  Aloo  [Page  190] 


BARRY    GORDON 


BY 


WILLIAM    FARQUHAR   PAYSON 

AUTHOR  OF 

JOHN  VYTAL,   THE  TRIUMPH   OF  LIFE, 
DEBONNAIRE,    ETC. 


ILLUSTRATIONS    BY    HARRY   TOWNSEND 


NEW   YORK 

THE    McCLURE    COMPANY 
MCMVIII 


Copyright,  1908 ,  by  The  McClure  Company 


Copyright,  1907,  by  William  Farquhar  Payson 


TO 
EDMUND   ROBERTS    MARVIN 


2229033 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 

THE    TREE   OF  KNOWLEDGE 
CHAPTER  I 

PAGE 

A  Day  to  be  Remembered.  The  Game.  The  Face  in 
the  Crowd.  Barry  Turns  the  Enemy's  Flank.  A 
Telegram.  3 

CHAPTER  II 

How   Colonel  Gordon  Came   a   Cropper.     He  Consults 

Dr.  Burke,  and  Receives  Monstrous  Advice.  11 

CHAPTER  HI 

The  Drive  in  the  Dark.      And  of  How  Barry  is  Gazed  at 

by  His  Father.  20 

CHAPTER  IV 

The  Colonel's  Plans  for  Barry's  Future.      Ghostly  Por- 
traits.    Father  and  Son  and  the  Blood  in  their  Veins.       29 
[vii] 


CONTENTS 
CHAPTER  V 

PAGE 

Storm  and  Wreckage.    The  Devil's  Toast.     Barry  Alone.       42 


BOOK  II 

THE  RAINBOW 

CHAPTER  I 

Evil  Memories.  The  Spree.  What  Barry  Saw  in  Meade's 
Left  Hand.  A  Double  Exposure.  How  Barry  and 
Tom  Hurried  into  their  Clothes.  51 

CHAPTER  H 

The  Refugees.     Barry  Makes  Friends  with  a  Watchdog 

and  Keeps  a  Midnight  Vigil.     Dawn  and  a  Girl.  59 

CHAPTER  HI 

Their  First  Meeting.  Barry  Sees  a  Metaphorical  Rain- 
bow and  Strives  to  Grasp  it,  but  Breakfast  Intervenes 
— also  Tom.  68 

CHAPTER  IV 

Concerning  Mr.  Beekman,  and  how  the  Part  in  his  Hair 
Fascinated  Barry.  A  Pointed  Interview.  Life  is 
Evidently  a  Serious  Business,  but  there  Goes  Muriel 
with  Tom!  79 

CHAPTER  V 

Barry  and  Tom  in  the  Same  Boat.     Their  Earliest  Fires. 

Muriel  Alternates.     Her  Little  Song.  86 

[viii] 


CONTENTS 
BOOK  III 

THE  FALL 
CHAPTER  I 

PAQB 

College  in  a  Nutshell.  Barry  Grows  Restless.  Love  and 
the  Wanderlust.  He  Obeys  Heaven  but  Not  the 
Faculty  and  There's  the  Devil  to  Pay.  99 

CHAPTER  II 
A  Divorcee  Dresses  a  Debutante.  105 

CHAPTER  m 

The  Duel  of    the   Flowers.     Muriel's    Song    Re-echoes, 

and  Barry  Tears  Aside  a  Veil.  112 

CHAPTER  IV 

The   World   Enters.      The   Way  an   Artist   Felt  About 

Muriel.     How  Barry  Felt,  too.     Meade's  Revenge.         123 

CHAPTER  V 
Bunidge  Draws  the  Portieres.  188 

CHAPTER  VI 

Kitty  to  the  Rescue.     A  Crisis  in  Barry's  Career.    The 

Call  of  the  Sphinx.  141 

CHAPTER  Vn 

An  Anxious  Evening.     Mr.  Beekman  Plays  Patience.     A 

Letter  from  Nowhere.  154 

[ix] 


CONTENTS 
BOOK   IV 

THE   ROLLING   STONE 
CHAPTER  I 

PAGE 

Paris,  the  World's  Half-way  House.  The  Man  in  the 
Champs  Elysees.  A  Toy  Balloon  Vanishes,  and  an 
Old  Friend  Appears.  165 

CHAPTER  II 

Duck  and  Burgundy.  Platonics  in  Paris.  Kitty  Tact- 
fully Pumps  Her  Captive.  175 

CHAPTER  III 

Barry's  Amazing  Adventures.     The  Cab  Race.     A  Voyage 

to  the  Stars.     African  Nights.     Naomi  the  Fawn.  183 

CHAPTER  IV 

Barry  Buys  an  Evening  Paper.     The  News  on  the  Front 

Page.     The  Course  of  His  Life  is  Suddenly  Changed.     194 


BOOK  V 

NEMESIS 

CHAPTER  I 

Time    and    Propinquity    Smooth    the    Way,    but    Mrs. 
Beekman  Blocks  It,  and  Barry  has   Secret  Misgiv- 
ings.   Kitty  Again  to  the  Rescue.  303 
[*] 


CONTENTS 
CHAPTER  II 

PAGE 

Barry  and  Muriel.     The  Man  in  the  Train.    The  Fates 

Spin  Fast.  214 

CHAPTER  III 

Flight  and  Pursuit.     Their  Wedding  Night.     The  Har- 
mony of  the  Spheres,  and  the  Jangle  of  a  Door-bell.        225 


BOOK  VI 

THE   TREE   OF  LIFE 

CHAPTER  I 

A  Human  Stew,  and  of  Certain  Travellers  who  Sought 

a  Man  Named  Barry  Gordon.  239 

CHAPTER  II 

Barry  Gropes  Toward  the  Light.  The  Spirit  of  the  Sword 
and  the  Spirit  of  the  Market-place.  How  a  Woman 
Hid  in  a  Booth  and  Listened.  246 

CHAPTER  HI 

"At  the  South  of  the  Market-place  at  Sundown."     God 

Pity  Women!    The  Call  to  Prayer.  268 

CHAPTER  IV 

The  Ride.     Cassim  and  Achmet.     Night  on  the  Edge  of 

a  Continent.     A  Mocking  Voice.  284 

[xi] 


CONTENTS 
CHAPTER  V 

PAGE 

The  Cave  and  its  Occupant.     "Greater  Love  Hath  no 

Man  than  This  "  297 

CHAPTER  VI 

The    Spell    of    Barry's  Sacrifice.     The   African  Garden. 

Muriel  and  Tom.     Black  Magic.  314 

CHAPTER  VH 

The  Death  of  Naomi,  and  the  Jew's  Vengeance.     The 

Agony  in  the  Garden.     Dawn.  327 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

They  spent  enchanted  hours  on  that  far  flat  roof 

in  Beni  Aloo  Frontispiece 


PACING 
PAGE 


He  saw  the  body  of  his  old  friend  lifeless  near  the  table  46 

"O  Barry!     How  could  you  do  it?    You've 

killed  me,"  she  said  120 

"One  thing  I  ask:  Let  me  see  my  brother  face  to  face"  262 

Barry  played  on  their  pet  weaknesses  until  the 

deal  was  closed  294 

His  voice  fell  to  a  whisper  like  a  sigh  340 


BOOK    I 
THE   TREE  OF  KNOWLEDGE 


CHAPTER    I 

A    DAY    TO     BE     REMEMBERED.       THE     GAME.       THE     FACE 

IN    THE    CROWD.       BARRY    TURNS    THE    ENEMY*S 

FLANK.       A    TELEGRAM 

BACK  in  the  eighties,  at  St.  Clement's  School, 
there  was  a  boy  named  Barry  Gordon.  Tradi- 
tion says  he  was  the  life  of  the  school  and  had 
more  chivalry  and  deviltry  in  his  little  finger  than  all 
the  rest  of  the  pupils,  body  and  soul. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  he  was  doubtless  a  fine  young  cub, 
with  plenty  of  brain,  some  brawn,  and  at  times  good 
looks.  His  popularity,  they  say,  was  more  concentrated 
than  general,  the  rank  and  file  never  knowing  quite  how 
to  take  him,  he  was  so  variable — sometimes  so  old  for 
his  age,  sometimes  so  young.  But  the  elect  worshipped 
him,  and  guided  the  others  to  a  wondering  admiration. 

When  he  chose,  the  fellow  could  outstudy  the  lot,  or 
at  least  outdo  them  by  a  sort  of  quick  and  random 
acquirement  of  learning.  Yet  for  the  most  part  he  was 
given  over  to  outdoor  games  and  adventures,  or  clan- 
destine browsings  through  fields  of  literature  con- 
demned by  the  masters  as  uninstructive. 

In  a  village  shop  he  bought  wonderful  second-hand 
[3] 


BARRY  GORDON 

books,  and,  smuggling  them  into  school,  tucked  them 
away  between  the  mattresses  of  his  bed.  The  indulgent 
matron,  too,  who  never  could  withstand  his  eyes  and 
voice,  would  covertly  convey  to  him  other  treasures 
from  her  private  library;  and  he,  with  the  forbidden 
fruit  carefully  sandwiched  between  geometries  and 
algebras,  would  hie  him  forth  to  some  nook  in  the  woods 
to  study,  not  angles  and  equations,  but  all  the  colours 
and  rhythms  of  life. 

By  this  secret  means  he  came  to  know  a  mixed  and 
interesting  company.  English  knights  were  there, 
American  pioneers,  crusaders  and  cowboys,  courtesans, 
queens,  and  saintly  nuns.  His  taste,  to  say  the  least, 
was  catholic.  Much  as  he  loved  the  virtuous,  his  hatred 
of  all  the  villainous  was  quite  as  ardent.  Much  as  he 
revered  exalted  heroes,  his  love  for  the  poor  comical 
wretches  was  no  less  warm.  Deep  in  this  forest  library 
they  were  all  on  a  footing,  all  enchanters  without  caste. 

Yet  if  he  had  any  leanings,  they  were  toward  the  old 
and  the  foreign.  Born  in  Virginia  of  cavalier  stock,  his 
veins  were  ready  channels  for  the  Old-World  fire,  his 
soul  a  ready  mirror  for  the  Old-World  glamour  and 
glow.  Above  all  he  loved  yarns  of  far  voyages.  In  his 
last  year  at  school  he  took  to  books  that  diffused  atmos- 
pheres, books  that  breathed  out  the  breath  of  distant 
races  and  places,  till  at  last  he  had  a  vision  of  the 
world. 

[4] 


BARRY    GORDON 

His  mother  was  dead,  but  his  father  still  lived  in  the 
South — as  remarkable  a  father,  he  thought,  as  ever 
a  fellow  had.  Back  and  forth  between  Virginia  and  the 
school  in  New  England  went  streams  of  letters.  Ques- 
tions of  life  flowed  from  Barry  to  his  father  in  the 
South,  like  a  tidal  river  ebbing  to  the  parental  sea. 
Then  back  to  Barry  in  the  North  came  a  swelling  tide, 
flooding  him  with  brilliancy  and  obscurity,  reckless 
imagery  and  poetic  humour.  But  in  the  end  all  this  was 
changed  by  a  sudden  harsh  reality. 

When,  later,  he  looked  back  on  that  day  the  memory 
was  blurred,  save  for  a  few  sharp  details. 

It  came  in  his  last  year.  His  younger  brother,  Tom, 
was  in  quarantine  with  measles.  It  was  an  autumn  after- 
noon, the  air  cool,  the  sky  clear.  The  great  football 
game  of  the  season — St.  Clement's  versus  Strickland's 
Academy — was  nearing  its  last  moment;  and  here — 
worse  luck! — lay  the  captain,  Barry  Gordon,  on  the 
ground,  winded  and  helpless,  while  the  teams  waited. 
He  was  stretched  out  on  the  side  line.  Some  one  sponged 
his  forehead,  and  his  staunch  friend  Hicks,  the  quarter- 
back, kept  working  his  arms  up  and  down  to  pump  air 
into  his  lungs.  Dimly  he  heard  the  strident  cheering,  as 
if  from  miles  away;  and  when  he  turned  his  head  auto- 
matically for  a  sponging  over  the  temple,  he  saw 
across  the  field  innumerable  little  waving  flags — spots 
of  colour  dancing  before  his  dazed  eyes. 

[5] 


BARRY  GORDON 

There  seemed  to  be  nobody  near  him  save  the  two 
who  pumped  and  sponged,  till  gradually  he  became 
aware  that  two  others  were  not  far  off.  Evidently  they 
thought  him  senseless,  but  he  was  not.  Though  a  knock- 
out tackle  had  nearly  finished  him,  and  he  could  not 
think  much,  he  could  hear  their  words  and  recognise 
their  voices.  One  was  the  sugary  voice  of  Pierce,  the 
principal,  the  other  that  of  a  friendlier  master. 

"  Too  bad,"  said  Pierce  lightly ;  "  too  bad !  " 

"  How  unfortunate  his  brother's  ill  and  can't  go  with 
him ! "  said  the  other.  "  That  might  help  him  to  bear  it 
— Barry's  so  fond  of  Tom." 

"  Yes,"  said  Pierce,  sweet  and  unmoved,  "  but  per- 
haps it  will  develop  his  character." 

Despite  this  promising  outlook,  the  under-master 
seemed  to  feel  pretty  bad  about  it. 

"  Poor  Barry !  "  he  muttered.  "  Shall  we  tell  him?  " 

Pierce,  as  usual,  was  cold  as  a  fish. 

"  Dear,  dear,  no ! "  he  said.  "  The  fellow's  our  last 
hope.  Break  it  to  him  now,  and  the  game's  lost — he's  so 
high-strung.  Southerner,  you  know."  Mr.  Pierce's  voice 
fell,  but  was  still  audible.  "  We  must  win  this  game.  If 
we  do,  St.  Clement's  booms.  We  don't  want  old  Strick- 
land to  pocket  all  the  pupils !  " 

Then,  seeing  that  he  was  recovering,  they  moved  off, 
Pierce  saying  nervously: 

"  After  the  game,  after  the  game." 
[6] 


BARRY  GORDON 

To  Barry,  half  conscious  on  the  ground,  the  matter 
had  seemed  queer,  but  not  serious.  Pierce  probably 
thought  of  expelling  him.  Some  scrape  had  come  to 
light — that  was  all.  There  were  plenty  of  them  lying 
around  half  buried.  Pierce  wasn't  only  a  fish;  he  was  a 
ghoul,  a  prowler.  Very  well,  let  Pierce  bounce  him! 

The  subject  rolled  from  his  mind  like  a  vapour. 
Then,  as  his  strength  grew,  he  was  gripped  again  by 
the  lust  of  the  game.  Most  of  his  ancestors,  history 
said,  had  been  fighting  men.  Perhaps  that  explained 
the  fever  in  him,  the  blind  impatience  to  be  up  and 
again  at  it ;  and  though  Pierce's  mercenary  motives 
were  not  inspiring,  something  else  was. 

Barry  had  turned  his  other  temple  to  the  reviving 
sponge.  This  brought  within  range  of  his  sight  the 
crowd  at  the  nearer  side  of  the  field.  Hundreds  of  faces 
were  there,  but  he  had  a  dim  sense  of  one  especially — 
the  face  of  a  girl  he  had  never  before  seen.  Stretched 
out  as  he  was  and  still  half  dazed,  he  did  not  see  her 
clearly.  She  seemed  to  be  looking  at  him,  her  eyes  full 
of  tenderness,  her  cheeks  flushed,  her  lips  parted,  her 
whole  expression  eloquent  of  anxious  waiting  and  ex- 
cited admiration. 

His  impression  of  her  face,  though  brief  and  dreamy, 
was  none  the  less  moving.  With  a  sudden  effort  he  stag- 
gered to  his  feet,  keen  for  the  game.  As  he  stood  a 
moment  leaning  on  Hicks,  silently  planning  the  attack, 

m 


BARRY  GORDON 

Mr.  Pierce's  vaporous  mystery  crossed  his  mind.  But 
the  fact  that  something  apparently  unpleasant  hung 
over  him  only  stimulated  him  to  combat  its  unnerving 
effect.  Somehow  he  began  to  associate  his  father  with 
the  game,  wishing  that  he  was  at  hand  with  all  his 
resource  and  inspiriting  encouragement. 

Then,  suddenly,  the  wish  in  a  way  was  granted. 
Barry  remembered  a  tactic  which  people  said  his  father 
had  once  used  in  the  Civil  War.  Gordon's  Raiders,  in  a 
certain  battle,  had  played  a  dashing  trick  and  won.  If 
the  strategy  had  worked  once,  why  not  again?  Barry 
spoke  hurriedly  to  Hicks. 

"Jim,"  he  said,  "listen!" 

Then  he  whispered  the  main  point  of  the  move.  Luck- 
ily it  depended  on  these  two  only.  The  rest  of  the  team 
did  not  need  to  know.  In  fact,  their  very  guilelessness 
would  make  the  intended  feint  look  real. 

Barry  hastened  out  on  the  field.  The  crowd  cheered, 
the  colours  danced,  but  he  was  careless  now  of  every- 
thing save  the  next  play. 

That  play  was  old  in  warfare,  but  new  then  in  foot- 
ball, though  at  the  start  it  looked  usual.  The  signal 
Hicks  gave  was  familiar  to  Barry's  men.  The  team 
obeyed  in  vigorous  good  faith.  There  was  a  'dash 
against  the  enemy's  right.  Under  cover  of  this,  Hicks 
made  a  secret  pass  to  Barry.  Then,  while  the  melee 
thickened,  came  a  swift,  strange  darting  to  the  left, 

[8] 


and  the  spectators  were  nonplussed,  till  suddenly  from 
the  edge  of  the  scrimmage  broke  a  figure,  every  inch  a 
born  runner,  fleet  as  a  hare. 

In  a  moment,  with  the  pack  on  his  heels,  Barry  had 
crossed  the  line;  a  goal  was  kicked,  time  was  called, 
and  the  game  won. 

What  happened  to  him  then  was  confused  and  mad. 
He  felt  himself  lifted  and  borne  along  high  above  a 
swarm  of  St.  Clement's  enthusiasts,  all  blinding  him 
with  their  flags  and  deafening  him  with  their  cheers. 
The  face  of  the  girl  he  did  not  again  see.  From  his 
perch  he  searched  for  it,  but  in  vain.  Yet  he  felt  happy 
and  healthily  fagged,  and  healthily  proud  of  his  father 
and  himself. 

Then  the  blow  fell,  and  it  was  worse — far  worse — 
than  he  had  thought. 

As  he  was  lowered  to  the  ground,  Mr.  Pierce  stood 
waiting  for  him  with  a  pained  smile. 

"  My  boy,"  he  said  impassively,  "  I  am  pleased.  How 
did  you  manage  it  ?  What  did  you  do  ?  " 

Barry  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  brow  with  the  grimy 
sleeve  of  his  jersey.  His  black  hair  was  tangled  and 
caked  with  mud,  his  face  soiled  and  scarred  by  the 
struggle.  Yet  he  looked  a  fine,  upstanding  fellow,  and, 
despite  his  general  dishevelment,  bore  himself  with  a 
graceful  confidence  and  pride. 

"  I  remembered  how  my  father  did  it  in  a  battle,"  he 
[9] 


BARRY  GORDON 

said  offhand ;  then,  with  a  lift  of  his  head  and  an  absent 
brightening  of  his  dark  eyes :  "  My  father,  Colonel 
Gordon,  who  commanded  Gordon's  Raiders  in  the  Civil 
War." 

Mr.  Pierce  shifted  uncomfortably  and  cleared  his 
throat. 

"  This  is  indeed  a  sad  coincidence,"  he  said  with 
sickly  pity.  He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  sheet  of  yellow 
paper.  "  I  have  just  had  a  telegram  from  your  father's 
doctor."  He  handed  the  yellow  slip  to  Barry,  adding 
in  a  voice  of  stilted  sentiment,  "  Be  brave,  Barry,  be 
brave!" 

Dazed,  the  boy  read  the  following  terse  message: 

STEPHEN  PIERCE,  ESQ., 

Principal  St.  Clement's  School. 

Colonel  Gordon  critically  ill.  Tell  Barry  come  home  at 
once-  LUKE  BURKE. 

As  Barry  stood  staring  at  the  yellow  sheet,  Pierce 
drew  a  smug  sigh  and  closed  his  little  eyes  as  if  prayer- 
fully. 

"  Verily,  in  the  midst  of  life,"  he  murmured,  "  we  are 
in  death ! " 


[10] 


CHAPTER  II 

HOW  COLONEL  GORDON  CAME  A  CROPPER.   HE  CONSULTS 
DR.  BURKE,  AND  RECEIVES  MONSTROUS  ADVICE 

COLONEL  GORDON  sat  alone  at  his  dinner- 
table — a  tall,  massive,  white-haired  gentleman, 
with  an  air  of  loose  kingliness  about  him. 
There  was  nothing  in  his  appearance  to  suggest  ill 
health,  save  perhaps  a  bandage  around  his  leonine  head, 
and  even  this,  to  a  friend  familiar  with  his  habits,  would 
have  implied  nothing  new  or  serious.  Often  before 
now  he  had  worn  swathed  over  his  aching  brow  the 
rakish  chaplet  of  &  son  of  Bacchus;  but  that  was 
usually  of  a  morning  following  excesses,  whereas  the 
present  bandage  decked  him  day  and  night. 

Stirring  his  coffee  in  a  ruminative  way,  the  colonel 
spoke  to  a  shadow  behind  him. 

"  Joshua ! "  An  old  negro  glided  forward.  "  Bring 
me  a  box  of  Henry  Clays." 

Joshua  bowed  respectfully. 

"Yassah.  Mild,  sah?" 

"  No — dark — and  two  or  three  bottles  of  the  forty- 
seven  Madeira.  When  Dr.  Burke  comes,  show  him  in 
here." 

[11] 


BARRY    GORDON 

Joshua  bowed  again,  cast  an  anxious  sidelong  glance 
at  his  master,  and  left  the  room. 

For  once  Colonel  Gordon  felt  very  uncomfortable  in 
the  solitude.  For  once  the  silence,  broken  only  by  the 
creaking  of  the  cellar  stairs  under  Joshua's  tread,  op- 
pressed him ;  and  even  the  subsequent  popping  of  corks 
in  the  pantry  failed  to  enliven  his  mood.  For  once  even 
the  dim  Gordon  portraits  on  the  walls  were  poor  com- 
pany. 

Joshua  returned  to  the  dining-room  with  the  box  of 
Havanas  and  several  cobwebby  bottles.  Setting  these 
and  one  of  the  glasses  before  his  master,  he  was  ab- 
sently placing  a  second  glass  at  the  opposite  end  of  the 
table  when  the  colonel  stopped  him. 

"  Not  there !  "  he  muttered  irascibly.  "  Will  you 
never  remember?  "  He  motioned  to  a  position  at  his 
right.  "  Put  it  here." 

The  negro  backed  away  from  the  empty  armchair 
at  the  table's  head  as  if  from  a  ghost,  and  placed  the 
glass  as  directed.  For  a  moment  he  lingered  in  the  sur- 
rounding shadows  of  the  large  dining-room  as  though  to 
guard  his  beloved  master.  But  Colonel  Gordon,  pouring 
his  wine,  resented  the  felt  vigil,  and  said  testily: 

"  When  I  need  you  I  will  ring."  Then  Joshua,  with 
his  ever  ready  bow,  left  the  colonel  again  alone. 

The  solitude  was  not  unusual — far  from  it;  but  to- 
night the  room  seemed  darker  and  emptier  than  ever 

[12] 


BARRY    GORDON 

before;  to-night  he  smoked  his  Henry  Clay  and  drank 
his  Madeira  without  that  slow  preliminary  puff  and  sip 
with  which  a  connoisseur  tests,  as  it  were,  the  indi- 
viduality of  each  cigar  and  bottle. 

He  was  a  fiery  man,  this  Virginia  colonel,  and  now 
that  his  doctor  would  have  him  dying  the  fire  kept  flar- 
ing up. 

"  Confound  it ! "  he  finally  muttered,  out  of  all 
patience  with  this  new  gloom  so  foreign  to  him.  "  Burke 
be  damned ! " 

Nevertheless,  when  at  last  the  doctor's  short  bulk 
darkened  the  doorway,  Colonel  Gordon  at  once  relaxed 
as  if  he  felt  relieved  and  somehow  safer. 

"  Come  in,  Burke.  Surprised  to  see  me  dressed  and 
down,  eh?  Draw  up  a  chair." 

Burke  obeyed,  frowning. 

"  Gordon,  I  told  you  to  stay  in  bed." 

"  Bed  be  damned !  "  said  the  colonel.  "  Do  you  think 
I  want  that  she-devil  laughing  at  me  in  her  stall?  " 
He  scowled  humorously.  "  It's  the  first  joke  old  Mes- 
salina's  ever  played  on  me — though  Lord  knows  she's 
often  tried.  That  comes  of  larking  in  cold  blood.  I  tell 
you,  Burke,  if  I'd  had  the  pack  out  she'd  never  have 
done  it.  Think  how  I've  hunted  that  mare.  Gad,  man, 
give  her  company  and  she'll  clear  the  moon ! "  He  pushed 
forward  the  Madeira  and  the  cigar-box.  "Here,  old  sober- 
sides, take  a  cigar ;  have  a  glass  of  the  forty-seven." 

[13] 


BARRY  GORDON 

Burke  glowered  under  his  beetle  brows  at  the  array 
of  bottles. 

"  Suicide !  "  he  ejaculated  indignantly.  "  Out  and 
out  suicide,  Gordon !  I  implored  you  not  to  drink." 

"  H'm — yes,  but  you're  always  preaching."  The 
colonel  made  a  quick  gesture  to  forbid  reply.  "  I  know 
—I  know.  You  want  to  say  this  is  different.  You  want 
to  tell  me  all  over  again.  No  need,  Burke;  no  need.  I 
understand  perfectly,  sir,  perfectly.  I  came  a  cropper 
and  landed  on  my  head.  I  was  larking,  Burke,  across 
country,  and  Messalina  was  larking  too — oh,  no  doubt 
of  it.  But  do  you  know  I  believe,  Burke,  she's  get- 
ting stiff  in  the  hocks — that's  what  I  believe.  It  really 
wasn't  her  fault,  bless  her  soul,  now  was  it?  Hang 
it,  man,  she  came  down  herself,  I  tell  you — struck 
the  fence  with  her  knees.  Doesn't  that  prove  she's 
weak  on  the  take-off — gone  in  the  hocks?  Eh? 
Now  I  ask  you  as  a  doctor,  you  old  veterinary 
owl!" 

Burke  grunted  silently  and  fumbled  for  a  cigar. 

"  I  wish  you'd  send  that  mare  to  the  knacker.  She's  a 
murderess.  How  are  your  own  legs?  That's  the  ques- 
tion." 

"  Oh,  they'll  do." 

"  And  your  head?  " 

Colonel  Gordon  cautiously  pressed  the  bandage  where 
it  crossed  one  of  his  temples. 

[14] 


BARRY  GORDON 

"  Splitting,"  he  admitted.  "  You  see  the  top  rail  went 
crashing  in  front.  I  must  have  landed  on  it." 

Burke  leaned  forward  across  the  corner  of  the  table 
and  reached  out  a  gnarled  hand. 

"  Let  me  feel  your  pulse." 

"No,  I'll  be  shot  if  I  wilH"  said  the  colonel  firmly. 
"  I  know  what  you  fear.  You  fear  a  cerebral  haemor- 
rhage. Bah !  I  dislike  the  sound  of  that !  "  Eluding  the 
doctor's  hand,  he  reached  for  and  filled  both  glasses, 
then  smiled  at  Burke  with  all  his  old  magnetic  hospital- 
ity and  graciousness.  "  Come,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  rich 
in  feeling.  "  You're  not  only  my  physician ;  you're  my 
friend.  Then  help  me  pass  these  hours  as  I  like.  If  I'm 
going,  I'm  going.  At  first,  Burke,  I  rebelled.  The  thing 
was  insufferable.  Gad,  sir,  it  made  my  gorge  rise!  I 
could  have  damned  Death  roundly.  But  that's  bad  taste, 
Burke — bad  taste — not  the  way  of  a  Southern  gentle- 
man ! "  He  paused  a  moment,  twirling  his  long  military 
moustache,  and  looking  off  dreamily  with  a  gaze  full 
of  courage  and  vague  humour.  "  Here  in  the  South 
even  uninvited  guests  are  welcomed  courteously."  He 
lifted  his  glass.  "  Here's  to  his  very  good  health, 
Burke !  " 

"Whose  good  health?  "  asked  Burke  obtusely. 

"  Death's,"  said  Gordon,  smiling.  "  Do  me  the 
favour,  please." 

Burke,  though  a  coarse-grained  man,  felt  unnerved 
[15] 


BARRY    GORDON 

by  this  graceful  courage.  With  an  awkward  grunt  of 
refusal  he  pushed  away  his  glass. 

"  No,  Gordon,  no ! "  he  exclaimed  hoarsely. 

The  colonel  regarded  him  with  amused  indulgence. 

"  Don't  blink,  Burke,  don't  blink !  And  I  wish  you 
would  smoke  your  cigar  instead  of  eating  it." 

Dr.  Burke  sat  mute,  staring  at  the  table.  For  more 
than  twenty  years,  ever  since  serving  as  a  surgeon  with 
Gordon's  Raiders,  he  had  known  this  man  and  loved 
him.  It  was  he  who  had  dragged  Gordon  from  the  field 
at  Chancellorsville  more  dead  than  alive;  he  who  had 
probed  Gordon's  wound  for  the  fragment  of  shell  and 
extracted  it;  he  who  years  later  had  ushered  Gordon's 
sons  into  the  world;  he  who  had  attended  Gordon's 
wife  in  her  last  illness;  and  since  then — ever  since  that 
burst  of  wild  grief  at  her  passing  had  set  the  torch  to 
Gordon's  tendencies — it  was  he  who  had  fought  against 
death  for  Gordon's  body,  and  against  hell  for  Gordon's 
soul.  And  now  the  fight  was  about  finished.  Gordon 
would  not  obey  him  and  keep  in  bed.  Gordon  persisted 
in  dining  and  wining  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 
Both  as  doctor  and  friend  he  felt  angry,  helpless,  and 
anxious. 

"  God,  Gordon ! "  he  broke  out  suddenly,  "  what  is  it 
about  you  that  turns  men  into  women?  You've  affected 
that  thick-skinned  nigger  of  yours  just  the  same.  When 
he  opened  the  door  for  me  he  fairly  blubbered.  It  was  so 

[16] 


BARRY    GORDON 

in  the  war,  too.  When  I  had  you  in  hospital,  every 
man  jack  got  chicken-hearted  with  anxiety.  Not  one 
but  wouldn't  have  died  for  you.  In  fact  a  lot  did." 

Gordon  idly  blew  a  cloud  of  cigar-smoke  up  toward 
the  lofty  ceiling.  Watching  its  ascent,  he  recalled  far 
greater  smoke-clouds — old  war  scenes.  He  remembered 
moments  when  a  laugh  had  rallied  the  men ;  when  a  cry 
in  a  charge  had  driven  them  mad  with  the  battle  fever. 
But  he  derived  little  pleasure  from  the  remembrance. 
It  was  not  altogether  satisfying  to  look  back  on  a  life 
whose  only  triumphs  had  been  triumphs  of  personality 
and  impulsive  dash — a  life  perhaps  without  a  single 
victory  of  character.  He  shrugged  irresponsibly.  At 
least  he  had  been  kind-hearted.  He  remembered  that  now 
and  then,  after  a  battle,  his  presence  out  there  in  the 
night  with  the  prone  figures  had  somehow  eased  their 
dying. 

Again  he  took  up  his  wine. 

"  A  toast  you  will  not  refuse,  Burke — the  dead 
Raiders!" 

Burke  nodded  and  reached  for  his  neglected  glass. 
Simultaneously  they  both  rose  and  drank  in  silence, 
then,  as  Gordon  reseated  himself,  he  asked  quietly : 

"How  long  do  you  give  me,  Burke,  before  I  join 
them?" 

The  doctor  leaned  forward  and  lighted  his  cigar  over 
the  silver  candelabrum  in  the  middle  of  the  table.  As  he 

[17] 


BARRY  GORDON 

did  so  his  blunt,  expressive  face  came  into  the  light. 
Gordon  saw  his  grizzled  brows  gathered  in  distress,  the 
cigar  trembling  in  his  hand. 

"  Not  long,  I  see,"  said  the  colonel  dryly,  and  again 
refilled  his  glass.  A  shadow  crossed  his  eyes.  "  I  hope  I 
shan't  go  before  Barry  gets  here." 

Burke,  reseating  himself,  cleared  his  throat. 

"  If  you  want  to  see  the  boy,  for  God's  sake  stop 
drinking!  The  wine  sends  the  blood  to  your  head." 

"  Not  another  drop,  then !  "  said  Gordon  harshly. 

Thrusting  the  cork  into  the  bottle,  he  hammered  it 
down  with  a  smart  rap  of  his  fist.  Burke  blew  forth  a 
gust  of  smoke  and  watched  it  drift  heavily  over  the 
candles. 

"  By  the  way,  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  Barry." 

Colonel  Gordon  shifted  uncomfortably. 

"What  now?" 

"  No  offence,"  said  the  doctor,  "  but,  Gordon — Bar- 
ry's already  shown  he's  got  a  lot  of  you  in  him — a  lot 
of  your  recklessness;  and  it  seems  to  me  you'd  better 
let  him  know  what's  in  his  blood.  Start  him  with  a  warn- 
ing. To  forewarn  him  is  to  forearm  him." 

Colonel  Gordon  raised  an  eyebrow  ironically. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Burke  ?  How  ?  By  telling  him 
a  thing  or  two  about  his  father  and  "  — he  made  a  ges- 
ture toward  the  surrounding  portraits — "  and  the  rest 
of  his  ancestors  ?  " 

[18] 


BARRY    GORDON 

Burke  nodded,  gnawing  his  cigar. 

"  H'm !  A  pretty  way  to  die,"  said  Gordon.  "  Blacken 
my  name  to  the  son  who  holds  it  dear,  then  shuffle  off 
and  leave  him  stranded  with  nothing  but  the  wreckage 
of  his  illusions."  The  colonel  paled.  He  was  staring  re- 
sentfully at  Burke.  "  My  dear  man,  I  think  you  must 
be  mad.  Barry  idolizes  me,  and  not  me  only,  but  our 
whole  line.  If  there  was  ever  ancestor-worship  in  a 
Christian  country,  it's  in  that  boy's  heart." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Burke  dully.  "  I'm  suggesting 
heroic  treatment.  Now,  Gordon,  I  beseech  you,  go  to 
bed." 

"  Heroic  treatment,"  said  Gordon  heedlessly.  "  Mon- 
strous treatment,  I  call  it!  Think  how  I  have  kept  it 
from  him !  When  he  and  Tom  come  home,  every  bottle's 
locked  up  until  late  at  night  when  they're  asleep.  Lord, 
man,  Barry  hasn't  an  inkling.  Your  plan's  hideous ! " 

Burke  shrugged  and  rose. 

"  I'll  call  again  in  the  morning.  Think  it  over." 

Gordon  had  slowly  sunk  down  in  his  chair,  his  eyes 
haunted  by  the  suggested  duty. 

"  You  damned  old  saw-bones,"  he  muttered,  "  you're 
advising  the  most  dangerous  experiment  ever  tried — 
an  experiment  on  a  boy's  soul." 

Again  the  surgeon  nodded. 

"  Nevertheless,"  he  said,  "  my  advice  is — operate!  " 

[19] 


CHAPTER    III 

THE     DRIVE     IN     THE     DARK.         AND     OF     HOW     BARRY     IS 
GAZED    AT    BY    HIS    FATHER 

THE  last  train  from  Richmond  was  due  at  seven 
o'clock.  At  half  past  six  Dr.  Burke,  who  had 
driven  to  the  station  alone  in  his  buggy,  al- 
ready sat  waiting.  The  doctor's  heart  was  heavy,  his 
mood  bitter.  For  once  he  sourly  regarded  this  environ- 
ment in  which  he  must  soon  outlive  his  usefulness. 

The  village  was  dead.  He  glanced  down  the  road  at 
the  two  or  three  ill-lighted  shops,  whose  dingy  and 
paper-patched  windows  but  half  concealed  their  shoddy 
wares.  He  could  see  the  shopkeepers  in  the  dim  interiors 
as  if  in  huge  cobwebs — ghosts  that  had  come  to  look 
like  the  spiders  with  whom  they  dwelt. 

Near  him,  at  the  station  platform,  several  mule- 
waggons  were  drawn  up,  the  waggons  dilapidated,  the 
mules  skeletons.  On  boxes,  crates,  and  express  trucks 
along  the  platforms  sprawled  the  drivers — "  white 
trash  "  and  negroes.  He  shut  his  ears  to  the  gossip  of 
these  phantoms — the  croak  of  the  whites,  the  drone  of 
the  blacks.  If  the  dead  ever  spoke,  these  were  their 
voices. 

[20] 


BARRY  GORDON 

Through  the  doorway  he  could  see  the  interior  of  the 
squalid  little  station,  from  which  poured  forth  a  mingled 
odour  of  kerosene  oil,  foul  tobacco,  and  cheap  rum. 
Under  a  grimy  lamp  at  an  inner  window  the  white  face 
of  the  station-agent  looked  out  lifelessly,  as  if  from  a 
prison  cell.  Now  and  then  a  ticket  purchaser  came  to 
his  window,  coins  clinked,  hands  moved,  and  the  trav- 
eller, passing  on,  seated  himself  in  the  line  of  waiting 
shadows  on  a  bench  against  the  wall. 

Ghosts — all  ghosts — bound  from  one  limbo  to  an- 
other in  the  dark  under-region  of  death!  Yes,  far 
worse  than  death.  Graveyards  are  peopled  with  dead 
bodies,  but  these  villages  of  the  South,  ravaged  by  war, 
seemed  to  be  peopled  with  dead  souls.  He  had  doctored 
their  anatomies  and  cured  their  physical  ills,  but  he 
could  not  save  dying  ambitions  with  hypodermics  nor 
remove  griefs  with  a  surgeon's  knife.  Only  time  could 
work  reconstruction.  Like  many  another  Southerner  of 
his  day,  Dr.  Burke  in  thought  that  evening  yielded  the 
South  to  posterity  as  a  trust.  With  this  vision  of  the 
rising  generation  his  frown  passed.  The  look  in  his 
eyes  was  like  fallen  embers — the  look  of  all  old  men 
when  they  dream  such  dreams.  He  was  gazing  past  the 
drooping  head  of  his  old  mare,  his  own  head  drooping 
too,  and  the  reins  loose  in  his  hand. 

Then  life,  new  life,  rushed  to  him  suddenly.  The 
whistle  of  a  locomotive  tore  through  the  silence.  He 

[21] 


BARRY  GORDON 

peered  out  of  the  buggy.  The  engine's  headlight,  a  huge 
eye,  loomed  large,  far  up  the  track.  The  rails  gleamed 
into  his  consciousness.  He  glanced  at  his  watch.  The 
train  was  five  minutes  ahead  of  time.  With  brakes  creak- 
ing and  lamps  lighting  up  the  countryside,  it  came 
rumbling  toward  the  station.  The  station  lantern  lit 
up  the  face  of  the  engineer  and  another  face — a  boy's 
— immediately  behind  it  in  the  window  of  the  engine- 
cab. 

The  doctor  blinked  to  focus  his  eyes.  For  an  instant 
the  youthful  face  flashed  toward  him  under  hatless, 
flying  hair.  Was  he  dreaming?  No;  the  impression  of  a 
face  brilliant  with  a  love  of  danger,  speed,  and  excite- 
ment, was  too  vivid  to  be  unreal. 

The  face  vanished.  The  locomotive,  panting  heavily, 
slowed  to  a  stop  behind  the  station.  In  another  moment 
Barry,  panting  too,  stood  beside  the  buggy. 

The  doctor  frowned. 

"  How  did  you  manage  that?  " 

"  I  asked  the  engineer." 

"  Do  you  always  get  what  you  want  for  the  mere 
asking  ?  " 

The  question  slid  from  Barry  like  water  from  the 
proverbial  duck. 

"  We  broke  the  record,"  he  exclaimed,  "  from  Rich- 
mond here.  How's  father?  " 

"  Messalina  threw  him." 

[22] 


BARRY    GORDON 

**  Plague  take  her !  "  cried  Barry.  "  I'll  ride  the  life 
out  of  her.  Won't  he  get  well?  Won't  he  get  well?  " 

The  doctor  averted  his  eyes. 

Suddenly,  as  the  truth  went  home,  he  heard  a  low 
moan,  then  the  buggy  gave  as  Barry  sprang  in,  the 
reins  were  caught  from  his  hand,  the  whip  seemed  to 
leap  from  its  socket,  and  the  old  mare,  terrified  by  the 
sudden  swish  of  it  in  her  ears,  shot  forward  into  the 
air. 

In  a  minute  they  were  racing  like  mad  along  the 
Gordon  turnpike,  the  buggy  swaying  from  side  to  side, 
the  mare  running  in  the  dark  as  if  driven  by  the 
furies. 

With  an  oath  the  doctor  grabbed  reins  and  whip. 

"  Whoa,  girl ;  whoa,  little  one ! "  He  spoke  to  his  old 
mare  with  a  note  of  sympathy  reserved  for  her  alone 
of  all  his  friends,  and  gradually  quieted  her  to  a  walk. 
Then  he  turned  on  Barry.  "  You  young  firebrand,  how 
did  you  dare  do  that  with  my  horse?  " 

"  I  wasn't  thinking  of  your  horse.  I  was  thinking  of 
my  father.  Is  he  in  bed?  "  Barry's  tone  was  full  of  awe. 
He  had  never  seen  his  father  laid  low,  and  the  picture 
preyed  on  his  mind. 

"  No,"  said  Dr.  Burke,  "  but  he  ought  to  be." 

Barry,  breathing  easier,  sat  forward  on  the  edge  of 
his  seat,  as  if  trying  to  urge  the  mare  to  a  trot  by 
mere  will-power. 

[23] 


BARRY    GORDON 

"  Doctor,  will  you  please  send  her  along  ?  " 

"  No,"  was  the  gruff  reply.  "  It's  a  wonder  you 
didn't  kill  her." 

"You're  not  going  to  let  her  jog  the  whole 
way?" 

"  Perhaps  I  am." 

Dr.  Burke  felt  a  hand  slip  through  his  arm.  That 
was  all — not  a  word;  yet  the  ingratiating  appeal  al- 
most prevailed.  Before  he  knew  it  he  had  clapped  the 
rein  on  the  mare's  flank.  Then  a  revulsion  of  feeling, 
a  dogged  defiance  of  all  these  spoiled  Gordons,  with 
their  winning  charm,  broke  the  spell.  He  reined  the 
animal  in  again  roughly. 

At  once  he  felt  the  springs  rock,  and  heard  a  sound 
in  the  grass  at  the  roadside.  Then  a  shadow  slightly 
blacker  than  the  night  darted  on  ahead  of  him  along 
the  pike.  He  called  in  vain.  The  figure  melted  into  the 
darkness. 

He  started  up  the  mare  in  pursuit.  The  sound  of  her 
hoof-beats  proved  more  effective  than  his  call.  Barry 
waited. 

"  Get  in !  "  commanded  the  doctor,  overtaking  him. 

"  Will  you  send  her  along  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  whirlwind.  Get  in !  " 

Barry  did  so,  and  the  doctor,  with  the  inconsistency 
of  wrath,  whipped  up  his  steed  savagely. 

They  drove  to  the  old  manor,  speaking  seldom.  Dr. 
[24] 


BARRY  GORDON 

Burke  was  so  dour  with  a  queer  mixture  of  grief  and 
spleen  that  Barry,  now  doubly  awe-struck,  kept  mute. 

The  drive  was  like  re-dreaming  his  vividest  dream. 
It  brought  back  the  few  short  holidays  he  had  been 
allowed  to  spend  at  home.  The  black  shapes  of  the  oaks 
speeding  by,  the  low  lying  lights  of  negroes'  cabins, 
the  occasional  twang  of  a  banjo,  the  crooning  of  songs, 
the  joggle  of  the  wheels,  even  the  smell  of  the  soil — the 
mother-soil — filled  him  with  a  love  of  home.  But  to- 
night his  home-coming  was  overhung  by  a  great  shad- 
ow; all  the  old  happiness  was  swallowed  up  in  awe 
and  sorrow. 

Colonel  Gordon,  waiting  at  a  window,  heard  the 
sound  of  wheels.  He  went  out,  and,  leaning  on  his 
malacca  cane,  paced  painfully  up  and  down  the  col- 
umned porch.  As  the  wheels  drew  nearer  he  straightened 
up,  set  his  cane  against  the  door- jamb,  and,  continu- 
ing his  march  without  its  aid,  strove  to  regain  his 
former  stride,  or  at  least  a  firm  tread — anything  but 
this  new  shuffle.  Annoyed  by  failure,  he  halted  at  the 
steps,  and,  gazing  down  the  faintly  lighted  avenue, 
waited  there  erect,  his  bandaged  head  held  high,  his 
moustache  pulled  sternly  straight,  his  brows  con- 
tracted. 

That  was  the  figure  Barry  saw  as  he  alighted  from 
the  buggy — the  splendid,  heroic,  martial  figure  of  his 

[25] 


BARRY  GORDON 

idol.  His  surprise  was  so  dazing  that  he  could  scarcely 
speak.  The  colonel  smiled,  evidently  tickled  by  his  son's 
astonishment. 

"  One  moment,  Barry,'"  said  Dr.  Burke,  pushing 
back  the  impatient  boy. 

He  drew  the  colonel  aside  and  put  some  question  to 
him.  The  reply  was  almost  indignant. 

"What?  Am  I  well?  Of  course  I'm  well — perfectly 
well,  you  old  quack."  The  colonel's  voice  fell,  but  was 
still  vibrant.  "  No ;  not  a  drop !  " 

The  doctor  hesitated.  He  saw  pain  in  the  man's  eyes 
— vital  pain. 

"  For  God's  sake,"  he  exclaimed  in  a  low  voice,  "  keep 
to  your  bed,  Gordon !  This  is  madness.  I  wash  my  hands 
of  you !  " 

"  Bed  your  grandmother ! "  said  the  colonel,  and 
laughed. 

As  Burke  drove  off,  Colonel  Gordon's  look  softened. 
A  great  light  filled  his  eyes,  and  his  whole  frame  seemed 
to  relax.  He  started  toward  Barry  with  arms  out- 
stretched. The  boy's  face  glowed.  He,  too,  started  for- 
ward. 

"  Father,"  he  said,  quickly  reassured  by  the  colonel's 
assumption  of  health,  "  thank  God,  Burke's  an  old 
quack !  " 

But  he  was  not  embraced.  Colonel  Gordon,  nodding, 
restrained  himself.  He  receded  a  step,  and,  fumbling 

[26] 


BARRY  GORDON 

for  his  cane,  planted  it  before  him  as  a  prop  and  leaned 
on  it  with  both  hands. 

"  Let  me  look  at  you.  It  seems  years." 

Barry  stood  abashed,  his  lips  parted,  his  eyes  bewil- 
dered. With  one  of  the  massive  columns  behind  him  and 
the  light  from  the  window  full  across  him,  he  presented 
a  striking  picture.  The  boy  was  well  made,  lithe,  tall 
for  his  age,  and  full  of  grace — the  grace  of  animals, 
not  of  women.  He  was  not  handsome,  but  an  air  of  mas- 
culine reserve  beyond  his  years  would  have  held  the  eye 
of  even  a  casual  observer.  He  was  the  sort  of  boy  to 
prompt  prophecies  as  to  the  man. 

His  father  studied  him  as  if  for  the  first  time. 

A  poet?  That  was  the  most  obvious  prediction.  But 
the  body  was  too  athletic,  the  chin  too  practical.  They 
contradicted  his  eyes'.  A  scholar  ?  No ;  the  brow  was  be- 
lied by  the  lips.  A  soldier?  Now  and  then,  perhaps,  but 
not  by  profession.  He  was  already  leaning  back,  re- 
lieved and  indolent,  against  the  column.  A  man  of  busi- 
ness ?  Never.  The  look  of  the  idler  was  part  of  his  grace. 
A  lawyer?  A  clergyman?  Never.  He  had  not  said  a 
word. 

The  colonel  smiled,  then  sighed.  Oh,  the  feeling  in 
this  boy ;  the  spirit  in  him !  To  the  father's  eyes  in  that 
brief  scrutiny  there  was  something  eternal  about  him 
— something  indescribable — the  Gordon  fire — the  Gor- 
don soul-stuff.  Though  he  was  motionless,  he  suggested 

[27] 


BARRY  GORDON 

motion.  Though  he  was  silent,  he  spoke.  That  was  it. 

He  was  a  paradox — a  paradox  born  of  a  long  line  of 

paradoxes — in  short,  a  fatally  human  boy.  What  then? 
The  colonel  turned  brusquely. 
"  Come,  Barry,  get  ready.  Dinner's  waiting." 
Yes,  there  was  no  doubt  of  it — Barry's  eyes,  though 

dreamy,  were  full  of  the  Old  Nick. 


[28] 


CHAPTER    IV 

THE  COLONEL'S  PLANS  FOR  BARRY'S  FUTURE.     GHOSTLY 

PORTRAITS.     FATHER  AND  SON  AND  THE 

BLOOD  IN  THEIR  VEINS 

THE  great  shadow  seemed  to  have  drawn  away. 
The  colonel,  if  dying,  was  dying  hard,  dis- 
guising the  fact  with  his  mask  of  health.  And 
Barry  was  still  young  enough  to  be  entirely  reassured 
by  appearances. 

At  dinner,  Colonel  Gordon  put  questions  as  to 
Barry's  life  during  the  autumn  term.  The  answers  were 
ready  and  honest.  :Barry  told  not  only  of  triumphs 
in  studies  and  athletics,  but  of  numerous  scrapes  as 
well.  He  made  his  confessions  neither  with  penitence 
nor  yet  with  bravado,  but  off-hand.  When  it  came  to  the 
last  game,  however,  and  the  Raiders'  winning  attack, 
there  was  pride  in  his  voice,  in  his  eyes  open  admiration 
as  he  looked  at  his  father. 

The  colonel  smiled. 

"  Licked  'em,  eh  ?  Licked  Strickland's,  did  you  ? 
Good!  I  congratulate  you." 

"  Oh,  it  was  mostly  you,"  said  Barry.  "  I'll  bet  you 
were  the  greatest  soldier  in  the  Confederate  army !  That 

[29] 


BARRY  GORDON 

bandage  makes  you  look  like  a  soldier  now — just 
wounded.  Do  you  know,  father,  I  think  there's  nothing 
like  a  fight — a  good,  round,  open  fight,  I  mean — like 
war  and  football." 

Dinner  over  and  Joshua  gone,  they  both  fell  silent  for 
a  time.  Then  at  last  Colonel  Gordon  observed  lightly : 

"  The  truth  is,  Barry,  you're  a  pretty  wild  lot ;  now, 
aren't  you?  " 

With  his  gaze  on  the  table,  Barry  appeared  to  con- 
sider this  question  seriously. 

'*  I  suppose  I  am,"  he  replied  at  length. 

"  And  what  you  need  is  taming?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  do.  They  all  say  that." 

"  Then  why  don't  they  do  it?  " 

"  They  try  to,  but  they  preach  too  much." 

"Preach?  How?" 

"  Oh,  every  way.  They  say  I  ought  to  try  and  be 
like  you,  but  I  know  I  never  can."  The  boy  shook  his 
head  hopelessly,  comparing  himself  with  his  ideal.  A 
shadow  crossed  the  colonel's  face,  but  he  kept  his  voice 
even. 

"  What  do  they  know  about  me  ?  " 

Barry  raised  his  eyes  to  his  father,  and  they  were 
full  of  light. 

"  I've  told  them  you're  Colonel  Gordon,  who  com- 
manded Gordon's  Raiders  in  the  Civil  War." 

[30] 


BARRY  GORDON 

The  colonel  rose  and  walked  to  the  window.  The  thing 
was  even  harder  than  he  had  expected.  Hard?  Yes, 
impossible,  with  the  rats  of  thirst  gnawing  at  his 
vitals,  the  sick  weakness  of  sudden  abstinence  turning 
his  very  bones  soft.  His  head  was  nothing  but  an 
ache. 

Must  he  break  Barry's  heart?  Burke  was  a  brute. 
Was  it  not  better  to  let  things  take  their  natural 
course,  to  let  life  have  its  way,  do  its  work;  better 
to  let  the  laws  that  govern  men's  souls  govern  Barry's ; 
better  not  to  meddle  with  eternal  affairs ;  better  to  let 
Barry  find  himself  gradually?  But  how?  By  experi- 
ence? Too  late?  Prove  hell  to  him — the  earth-hell — by 
letting  him  sound  its  depths  unwarned?  God  forbid! 

The  colonel  stood  feebly  at  the  window,  looking  out. 
The  night  was  calm  -and  silent,  serene  with  stars.  Oh, 
if  men's  hearts  could  attain  to  this  tranquillity !  His 
eyes,  staring  at  the  sky,  had  a  lost  look. 

Returning  to  the  table,  he  reseated  himself,  and  for 
some  time  kept  silence.  His  bandaged  head  was  bowed, 
his  large  shoulders  were  rounded,  his  chin  touched  his 
chest.  He  was  staring  at  the  empty  chair  opposite  to 
him. 

"  Barry,"  he  said  at  length,  "  do  you  remember  your 
mother?  Eh,  Barry,  do  you  remember  her?" 

Barry  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  I'm  afraid  not.  I  wish  I  could." 
[31] 


BARRY    GORDON 

"  So  do  I,"  said  the  colonel.  "  She  might  help  you. 
I  gave  you  her  picture.  Keep  it  and  try  to  image  her 
to  yourself — a  woman  with  hair  as  much  like  daytime 
as  yours  is  like  night — a  woman  with  eyes,"  he  mused, 
"  that  had  the  sky  in  them — clear  blue." 

He  drew  himself  up  with  an  effort. 

"  Barry,  my  boy,  my  chair,  too,  will  soon  be  vacant." 
He  glanced  down  at  the  table — his  used  napkin,  his 
emptied  coffee-cup,  his  plate  with  a  few  raisin  stems  and 
fragments  of  walnut-shells.  "  It  seems  to  me  my  life  has 
been  almost  as  brief  as  our  dinner,  and  now  the  feast  is 
over  and  only  the  debris  remains." 

He  sighed,  and  looked  up  at  Barry  with  forced 
calm. 

"  Barry,  my  boy,"  he  went  on,  "  when  I  die — whether 
it's  to-morrow  or  not  for  years — you  and  Tom  will 
have  a  good  income.  The  principal  will  remain  in 
trust  until  you're  thirty,  for  reasons  I  hope  you'll 
some  day  appreciate.  Do  you  remember  my  old  friend, 
Frank  Beekman?  He  used  to  come  here  when  you  were 
a  child.  Eh,  Barry,  d'you  remember  him  ?  " 

Barry  did  not;  but  his  mind  was  too  clouded,  his 
heart  too  heavy,  to  admit  of  a  steady  answer. 

The  colonel  looked  away. 

"  Frank  Beekman,"  said  he,  "  is  the  best  type  of 
Northerner,  and  my  oldest  friend.  In  winter  he  lives 
in  New  York;  in  summer,  in  Massachusetts.  I  don't 

[32] 


BARRY    GORDON 

know  his  wife,  but  I've  seen  his  daughter  Muriel.  She's 
about  your  age,  Barry,  and  a  little  thoroughbred.  I 
think  you'll  like  her.  I  think  she'll  be  a  help  to  you." 
The  colonel  cleared  his  throat.  "  I've  appointed  Mr. 
Beekman  my  executor  and  trustee.  I've  also  made  him 
guardian  of  you  and  Tom.  I've  left  your  income  en- 
tirely under  his  control." 

The  colonel  puffed  at  his  cigar  and,  breathing  out 
a  prodigious  cloud  of  smoke,  said  quietly : 

"  Thus,  Barry,  my  boy,  when  your  father  goes  gal- 
loping off  into  eternity,  you  also  will  be  transplanted 
from  your  birthplace,  though  not  yet  awhile  to  another 
planet.  Barry,  my  son,  this  particular  planet  on  which 
at  present  you  and  I  are  madly  whirling  through  space 
as  though  on  a  colossal  merry-go-round,  is  not  half 
bad,  believe  me.  At_  all  events,  by  gad !  sir,  it's  the 
best  we've  got.  So  stick  to  it,  Barry,  and  ride  close 
to  the  saddle,  nicely  balanced,  firmly  gripping;  and 
even  if  you're  riding  hell-fire,  don't  let  your  mount 
chuck  you.  For  God's  sake,  Barry,  don't  get  spilled 
as  I  have ! "  His  voice  caught,  but  he  mastered  it. 
"  Then  in  your  own  good  time,  when  the  run's  done, 
you  can  dismount  decently  and  in  order." 

Again  he  puffed  energetically  and  again  blew  forth 
a  voluminous  cloud  of  smoke. 

"  So,  Barry,  my  boy,  you'll  be  transplanted,"  he 
pursued.  "  You'll  be  permanently  transplanted — a  wise 

[88]' 


BARRY  GORDON 

move,  say  I,  for  the  descendants  of  all  old  families,  and 
especially  ours." 

He  smiled,  frowned,  and  hesitated,  twirling  his  long, 
white,  military  moustache.  He  had  come,  so  to  speak, 
to  the  stiff est  jump,  and  felt,  as  he  would  have  put  it, 
a  bit  weak  on  the  take-off.  But  he  was  in  the  saddle 
now,  nicely  balanced  and  firmly  gripping,  and  the  chase 
was  not  a  fox  hunt  but  a  devil  hunt ;  and  his  sudden, 
righteous  impulses,  straining  to  be  in  at  the  death, 
gave  tongue  like  a  pack  in  full  cry.  It  was  best,  it  was 
best!  It  was  no  false  scent.  It  was  the  trail  of  truth. 
Burke  was  the  whip  and  knew,  and  all  the  voices  said  so. 

Now,  then,  for  the  rise;  and  though  Messalina  had 
chucked  him,  he  swore  hell-fire  could  not! 

"  I've  remarked,  Barry,  that  transplanting  is  excel- 
lent for  old  families,  especially  for  ours;  and  if  I  ever 
know  what  I  am  talking  about,  I  do  now."  With  a 
wave  of  his  hand,  he  indicated  the  portraits  all  about 
them  on  the  walls — faces  vague  and  at  first  glance  in- 
scrutable in  the  candle-light.  "  Have  a  look  at  your 
ancestors,  Barry,  my  boy.  You've  seen  them  often  be- 
fore through  rose-coloured  glasses,  but  now,  I  fear, 
I've  got  to  take  those  magic  spectacles  off  your  nose.'* 
He  scowled  at  the  portraits.  "  What  do  you  think  of 
them  all?" 

Barry,  perplexed  at  the  new  and  somewhat  discordant 
irony  in  his  father's  rich  voice,  surveyed  the  file  of 

[34] 


BARRY  GORDON 

gilt-framed  personages  on  the  opposite  wall.  Hereto- 
fore, when  the  colonel  had  seen  his  son  gazing  up  at 
these  worthies,  he  had  said  to  himself  that  so  much 
ardour  and  reverence  in  a  descendant  must  surely  tickle 
their  vanity.  But  to-night,  as  Barry  looked  up,  the 
boy's  face  was  clouded  with  bewilderment. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  them  ?  "  repeated  the  colo- 
nel gently. 

Still  looking  up  and  still,  puzzled,  but  now  just  a 
shade  dogged,  Barry  replied: 

"  I  think  what  I  have  always  thought.  Of  course, 
they  are  dingy  and  dressed  like  guys,  some  of  them; 
but  as  you  say  yourself,  clothes  don't  always  count." 
He  shook  his  head,  sat  back  more  easily,  and  bright- 
ened. "  I  don't  see  anything  wrong  with  them,  and  I'll 
be  shot  if  I  want  to ! " 

Colonel  Gordon  "shifted  uncomfortably. 

"  That's  not  the  point,  Barry.  The  point  is,  you've 
got  to,  whether  you  want  to  or  not,  and  whether  or 
not  I  want  you  to.  That's  the  point,  Barry — you've 
got  to ! " 

He  singled  out  a  portrait  at  the  left  of  the  line 
facing  Barry.  The  picture  was  that  of  the  colonel's 
grandfather,  an  old  man  with  iron-gray  hair,  a  beak- 
like  nose,  a  strong  chin  in  a  long  white  stock,  and  a 
general  look  of  calm  dominance,  save  for  a  pair  of 
feverish  eyes. 

[35] 


BARRY  GORDON 

"  Now,  look  at  him,"  said  the  colonel.  "  A  shrewd 
statesman,  I've  often  told  you — one  of  Andrew  Jack- 
son's ablest  supporters.  Good!  But  look  at  his  eyes; 
look  at  the  unrestraint  in  his  telltale  eyes.  Now, 
here  is  what  you  don't  know  about  him.  He  got  lust- 
ing so  for  power  that  he  tried  to  come  it  over  the 
President  and  Congress.  Result — a  breach,  and  igno- 
miny." 

With  the  same  mechanical  wave  the  colonel  passed  on 
to  a  larger  portrait,  just  opposite  Barry.  The  man 
was  the  colonel's  great-grandfather,  and  one  of  Barry's 
favourites.  He  was  mounted  on  a  war-horse,  splendidly 
rearing,  and  looked  very  military  and  Washingtonian ; 
but  somehow  this  patriot  was  marred  by  a  lurking 
folly  in  his  eyes. 

"  A  great  gadabout,"  said  the  colonel,  "  and  a  great 
fighter.  Revolutionary  history,  as  you  know,  is  full  of 
him.  But  look  at  the  prodigality  in  his  eyes.  Now, 
Barry,  here  is  a  tradition  not  in  history.  He  loved  a 
number  of  women,  not  wisely  but  decidedly  too  well — 
you  understand." 

Thus  to  one  and  another  Colonel  Gordon  drew  his 
son's  attention,  showing  them  up,  as  he  put  it,  in  their 
true  light. 

Finally  he  nodded  toward  the  end  of  the  room,  a  far 
and  gloomy  wall  on  which  hung  but  one  picture.  This 
was  a  life-sized  portrait,  and  for  many  reasons  meant 

[36] 


BARRY  GORDON 

more  to  Barry  than  all  the  rest.  It  was  now  so  un- 
certainly lighted  by  the  candles  that  by  a  slight  stretch 
of  fancy  one  might  have  thought  some  ancient  Gordon 
ghost  stood  there,  meeting  the  gaze  of  his  two  de- 
scendants with  a  lofty,  irresponsible  stare.  According  to 
certain  memoirs,  this  portrait  represented  General 
Nicholas  Gordon — the  first  of  their  branch  in  Amer- 
ica. 

The  picture  was  obscure  and  shadowy.  The  figure 
seemed  to  be  standing  in  a  gloomy  interior,  lit  from 
one  side  by  a  weird  glare  as  if  from  a  torch.  The  man 
wore  the  military  garb  of  a  cavalier,  and  the  light 
gleamed  on  a  steel  corselet  and  sword.  The  whole  figure 
and  face  bespoke  virile  masculinity. 

"  Another  gadabout,"  said  Barry's  father,  "  but 
very  different.  Went  all  over  the  world,  you  know,  for- 
ever restless  and  wandering,  and  hungry  for  adven- 
ture. A  wolf  of  a  man,  Barry — a  wolf !  " 

As  Barry  had  turned  away  his  chair  and  sat  gazing 
at  the  distant  portrait,  the  colonel  could  not  see  his 
face,  but  when  he  spoke  his  voice  sounded  dry  and 
unnatural. 

"  I  thought  General  Gordon  was  one  of  the  found- 
ers of  Virginia,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  Barry,  boy ;  but  now  that  you've  looked 
the  lot  over  again,  listen.  Outwardly,  I  confess,  there 
is  glamour  about  them — and  inwardly,  too,  no  doubt. 

[37] 


BARRY  GORDON 

Bless  you,  boy,  they  were  full  of  pluck  and  what-not, 
and  even  virtue,  possibly — good  and  bad,  like  the  rest 
of  humanity,  only  somehow  wilder  than  most,  more  self- 
indulgent,  more  unbridled  and  reckless.  The  trouble 
with  us  is,  Barry,  we've  got  the  Gordon  fire.  Do  you 
want  to  know  what  that  is?  I'll  tell  you.  It  is  not  a 
well-behaved,  plebeian  little  fire  to  cook  your  dinner 
on;  it  isn't  a  respectable  middle-class  blaze,  useful  in 
the  furnaces  of  industry.  No;  it's  the  electric  fluid 
called  blue  blood — haphazard  and  destructive  as  light- 
ning." 

The  colonel  fumbled  with  his  bandage.  His  head  felt 
queer.  The  pain  was  not  so  sharp  now,  but  the  ban- 
dage seemed  tighter.  He  was  beginning  to  feel  nervous, 
restless,  and  his  facial  muscles  twitched.  Burke  was  a 
fool!  Fancy  knocking  off  a  man's  tipple  so  abruptly, 
just  when  it  was  most  needed!  Suddenly  he  was 
struck  by  the  absurd  incongruity  of  his  role  of 
preacher,  and  smiled  bitterly.  But  still  he  hung  to 
the  sermon,  and  spoke  in  a  hoarse  voice  to  Barry's 
back. 

"  Barry,  that  man  you're  looking  at  was  the  worst 
of  the  whole  crew.  He  died  with  a  drinking  song  on 
his  lips — a  toast,  if  you  please,  to  the  devil.  No  death 
could  have  been  more  consistent.  General  Nicholas  Gor- 
don, though  splendid  enough  in  war  and  public  affairs, 
was  quite  the  reverse  privately.  In  fact,  he  was  the 

[38] 


BARRY  GORDON- 

namesake  of  the  devil  he  toasted.  They  called  him,  for 
short,  « the  Old  Nick.'  " 

Barry  did  not  move.  If  he  flinched,  it  was  almost 
unnoticeable.  He  was  still  inscrutably  staring  at  the 
equally  inscrutable  ghost. 

"  You  can  read  it,"  said  the  colonel  uneasily,  **  in 
Laidlaw's  *  History  of  Virginia.'  That  will  tell  you  the 
truth  about  the  head  of  our  family  in  America — the 
story  of  how  General  Nicholas  Gordon  lived  and  died. 
And  in  a  foot-note  you  will  find  his  toast  to  the  devil. 
The  toast  has  a  peculiar  history.  Our  family,  you 
know,  traces  back  to  the  time  of  the  Crusades.  The 
first  Gordon  of  whom  there  is  any  record  died  fight- 
ing for  the  tomb  of  Christ.  But  in  the  second  Crusade 
there's  mention  of  a  Gordon  who  fell  in  love  with  a 
Saracen  woman,  and  went  to  the  bad.  Then  there's 
Adam  Gordon,  of  outlaw  fame,  who  calmly  waylaid  his 
king.  At  about  that  time  the  song  crept  in.  Perhaps 
he  made  it.  Who  knows?  Soon  there  was  a  superstition 
afloat  with  it.  *  Pledge  the  devil  in  wine,  he  responds 
in  brimstone.'  In  other  words,  drink  to  the  devil  and 
you  die.  They  say  this  superstition  was  revived  by 
Nicholas  Gordon's  death.  He  died,  you  see,  singing  the 
song." 

The  colonel  frowned. 

"  Queer  coincidence,  eh,  Barry  ? — deuced  queer !  " 

He  blew  a  great  cloud  of  smoke. 
[39] 


BARRY  GORDON 

"  Fatal  song,  that !  Let  me  see  if  I  can  remember  it. 
The  music's  lost.  Let  me  think — the  words  go  like  this : 

"Up,  friends,  up; 
To-night  we  sup. 
Tho'  to-morrow  we  die  of  the  revel!'" 

Barry  shifted. 

"  Don't !  "  he  interrupted  lifelessly,  without  turning. 
"  Don't!  What's  the  use?  " 

The  colonel  smiled. 

"You're  not  afraid,  are  you?  It's  only  a  supersti- 
tion. *  Drink  to  the  devil  and  you  die '  is  merely  a 
romantic  way  of  saying  '  the  wages  of  sin  is  death.' 
But  I'll  give  you  a  prettier  motto — eh,  Barry? — to 
offset  all  this.  Somewhere  in  an  old  ballad  I  think  I've 
read  of  a  Sir  Something-or-Other  Gordon,  who  went 
about  the  world  tilting  at  windmills  '  in  the  name,' 
quoth  he,  '  of  Amelotte.'  That  line,  I  remember,  ended 
every  stanza — 

"'In  the  name,'  quoth  he,  'of  Amelotte.* 

"  For  the  life  of  me,  I  can't  remember  anything 
more  about  the  gentleman,  but  I  dare  swear  his  Ame- 
lotte was  a  fine,  fair  girl — no  fly-by-night  Saracen 
woman — Lord,  no ! — the  man's  ideal,  Barry,  the  man's 
ideal!  God  send  you  a  woman,  Barry,  my  boy,  like 
Amelotte.  The  general  knew  one,  but  she  didn't  love 

[40] 


BARRY  GORDON 

him.  I  married  one,  but  she  died ;  and  so  " — Colonel 
Gordon  hesitated  a  moment  to  nerve  himself  for  the 
last  stab — "  and  so  I,  too,  have  gone  to  the  devil !  " 

His  cigar  was  out  now,  and  he  had  sunk  down  again 
in  his  chair. 

"  My  son,"  said  he,  "  I've  noticed  the  Old  Nick  in 
your  eyes,  too,  so  I  tell  you  this  to  forewarn  you  and 
forearm  you.  I  can  preach  all  the  better  because  I 
haven't  practised.  Barry,  I'm  drinking  myself  to 
death." 

He  paused,  staring  at  Barry's  back.  How  was  the 
boy  taking  it?  There  seemed  to  be  little  change  in  him. 
His  head  was  slightly  bowed,  and  his  broad  shoulders 
had  sunk  a  little — that  was  all;  but  his  immobility 
and  dumbness,  and  this  new  and  subtle  droop,  sug- 
gested a  mind  stunned.  Evidently  the  boy's  soul  was 
rocking;  evidently  a  great  darkness  swept  across  it. 
He  had  suddenly  been  fed  full  of  the  fruit  of  the  tree 
of  knowledge,  and  the  burning  taste  was  on  his  tongue 
like  corrosive  poison. 


[41] 


CHAPTER    V 

STORM      AND      WRECKAGE.      THE      DEVII/S      TOAST.      BARRY 

ALONE 

WHEN  at  last  Barry  moved,  he  only  half 
turned,  and  throwing  out  his  arms  across 
the  table,  buried  his  face  in  them,  not  pas- 
sionately, but  merely  as  if  longing  to  fall  asleep. 

With  a  flood  of  tenderness  the  colonel  leaned  toward 
him,  but  restrained  himself  and  drew  back.  Now  that 
the  thing  was  done,  a  mortal  weakness  began  to  possess 
him;  he  had  not  enough  strength  to  console  his  son  as 
a  man  should. 

Moment  after  moment  he  waited,  till  it  seemed  that 
he  had  waited  hours,  and  he  could  endure  it  no  longer. 
The  candles  were  down  to  their  sockets  now  and  flicker- 
ing fitfully.  Outside  a  November  night-wind  had  risen 
and  was  moaning  about  the  house.  The  loneliness  grew 
intolerably  oppressive. 

The  colonel  tried  to  say  something,  but  was  appalled 
to  find  that  he  could  not  do  so.  His  tongue  clove  to  the 
roof  of  his  mouth,  and,  when  he  tried  to  speak,  released 
itself  with  a  clicking  sound  that  sickened  him.  He  felt 
parched  to  the  core;  the  blood  and  marrow  in  him 

[42] 


BARRY  GORDON 

seemed  to  have  turned  to  hot  dust;  he  felt  as  If  his 
heart  pumped  ashes,  as  if  his  head  must  burst;  and  his 
whole  body  seemed  filled  with  needles. 

He  started  to  rise,  but  suddenly  a  tremor  ran 
through  him,  and  in  another  moment  he  realised  that 
from  head  to  foot  one  side  of  him  had  lost  sensation. 

Long  he  sat  there  helpless,  and  in  some  queer  way 
his  whole  life  unwound  before  him.  He  did  not  seem  to 
be  remembering  it,  but  actually  re-living  it.  At  first 
the  phenomenon  pleased  him,  and  he  lent  himself  to  it 
drowsily;  but  as  the  years  rolled  by  and  he  re-en- 
tered the  later  gloom,  he  desperately  struggled  to 
forget. 

The  effort  must  have  been  physical  as  well  as  mental. 
He  had  shifted  in  his  chair.  He  found  that  his  limbs 
on  the  side  seemingly  paralysed  had  become  movable 
again.  Stretching  himself  to  make  sure,  he  rose  shakily, 
and,  conscious  now  of  nothing  save  his  desires,  shuffled 
to  the  massive  mahogany  sideboard.  Opening  a  deep 
drawer,  he  took  out  a  bottle  of  Bourbon  whiskey  and 
filled  a  small  goblet  to  the  brim. 

The  gurgle  of  the  pouring  aroused  Barry.  He 
started  up  suddenly,  one  hand  catching  at  the  back 
of  his  chair,  the  other  biting  into  his  palm.  Still  dumb, 
still  dazed,  he  stared  at  his  father  and  at  the  glass  with 
blind  indignation. 

"  Barry,"  muttered  the  colonel  without  looking  at 
[43] 


BARRY  GORDON 

him,  "  fight  while  you're  young.  Fight  like  the  dickens 
while  you're  young.  If  you  don't  you'll " 

Filled  by  an  ungovernable  impulse,  he  caught  up  the 
glass  and  drained  it  at  a  swallow. 

Petrified  with  horror  Barry  recoiled,  pallid  and 
breathless  as  death.  The  tragedy,  though  not  real  to 
him,  was  worse  than  any  nightmare.  He  had  no 
thoughts,  no  immediate  resources — merely  an  impres- 
sion of  being  a  prisoner  in  a  great  gloomy  room — a 
prisoner  alone  with  dribbling  candles,  a  lot  of  weird 
faces,  and  a  massive,  loose-limbed  ghost  with  a  ban- 
daged head  and  a  shaking  hand  and  a  glass  of  fire — 
a  ghost  as  ghostly  as  all  the  others  in  the  gilt  frames 
— a  ghost  who  seemed  to  be  his  father,  but  was  not. 

Colonel  Gordon  refilled  his  glass  and  again  tossed 
down  its  fire.  The  draught  seemed  to  produce  no  ill 
result.  On  the  contrary,  as  it  took  effect,  he  stood 
straighter  and  looked  to  Barry  younger  and  more 
natural.  The  old  smile  returned  to  his  eyes,  the  military 
air  to  his  carriage.  Good-humour  and  that  love  of  life 
which  had  always  made  him  so  companionable  to  the 
boy  returned  and  began  to  bubble  from  him. 

"  Cheer  up,  Barry,"  he  said,  smiling.  "  Gad,  boy, 
your  soul  is  being  saved  to-night!  You'll  be  the  man  I 
might  have  been.  You'll  put  an  end  to  this  deviltry  for- 
ever ! " 

His  voice  was  real  now,  and  had  a  firm  ring.  It 
[44] 


BARRY  GORDON 

echoed  through  Barry  and  started  his  reason.  He  began 
to  think. 

The  colonel  swayed,  and  leaned  against  the  side- 
board. 

"  Barry,  boy,"  he  said  quietly,  "  forgive  me." 

He  turned  unsteadily,  refilled  his  glass,  and  was  about 
to  raise  it  to  his  lips  again,  but  this  time  Barry  was 
seized  by  a  wild  impulse.  Quickly  stepping  forward,  he 
struck  the  goblet  from  his  father's  hand.  As  it  fell,  it 
crashed  against  the  sideboard  and  broke  into  frag- 
ments. 

Colonel  Gordon  laughed  without  displeasure. 

"  Capital! "  he  said.  "  Excellent!  If  you  fight  it  that 
way  you'll  win."  He  took  another  glass,  and,  smiling, 
filled  it.  "  But  as  for  me,  I'm  too  far  gone." 

Barry  hesitated.  He  could  not  struggle  physically 
with  his  father.  His  breeding  and  sonship  forbade  such 
an  encounter.  He  thought  of  calling  Joshua,  but  shame 
kept  him  silent.  He  thought  of  running  for  Dr.  Burke, 
but  feared  to  leave  his  father  alone  in  this  Condition. 
He  could  only  plead  from  the  depths  of  his  waking 
soul. 

"  Father,  I  beg  of  you,  not  another  drop !  You're 
killing  yourself.  Stop  now,  and  I  swear  before  God 
I'll  never  touch  it  as  long  as  I  live ! " 

But  the  colonel  had  lost  the  chance  to  seize  and 
bind  that  vow.  If  he  saw  his  opportunity  at  all,  it  was 

[45] 


BARRY  GORDON 

too  elusive  to  be  grasped.  He  had  spoken  truly — he 
was  too  far  gone.  His  brain  was  succumbing;  insanity 
began  to  flare  in  his  eyes.  His  glass  half  raised,  he 
smiled  at  the  portraits  with  a  trace  of  his  old-time 
gracious  hospitality,  and  cried  genially: 

"Up,  friends,  up! 
To-night  we  sup, 
Tho'  to-morrow  we  die  of  the  revel!" 

Again  Barry  interrupted  him. 

"  No,  father,"  he  faltered,  shuddering.  "  Think  what 
you're  saying !  Think  what  you're  doing !  " 

But  the  colonel  seemed  to  have  forgotten  his  pres- 
ence. Dementedly  he  waved  his  good-will  to  the  ghostly 
company : 

"Up,  friends,  up! 
To-night  we  sup, 
Tho'  to-morrow  we  die  of  the  revel!" 

He  had  wandered  now  to  the  end  of  the  dining-room, 
and  stood  smiling  at  the  dark,  vague  portrait  of  Gen- 
eral Nicholas  Gordon.  To  Barry,  paralysed  with  awe, 
that  sinister  figure  seemed  to  control  the  tragedy.  He 
conceived  a  deadly  hatred  for  the  man  in  the  frame. 
The  general  was  his  father's  enemy — the  devil  that 
possessed  him.  Turned  to  stone,  Barry  stood  and 
watched  the  two  men  who  were  now  face  to  face,  each 
as  much  a  ghost  as  the  other. 

[46] 


He  saw  the  body  of  his  old  friend  lifeless  near  ike  table 


BARRY  GORDON 

The  colonel's  voice,  as  he  raised  his  glass,  came 
thick  but  hearty: 

"Up,  friends,  up! 

To-night  we  sup, 
Tho'  to-morrow  we  die  of  the  revel! 

Rise  for  a  toast 

Tho'  to-morrow  we  roast! 
A  health  to  his  lordship  the  devil!" 

Colonel  Gordon  drank,  and  stood  motionless  a  mo- 
ment. Then,  suddenly,  as  if  he  had  seen  something 
terrifying  in  the  portrait — some  subtle  stir  or  respon- 
sive shifting  of  the  figure — he  cried  out  in  fear,  and 
the  glass  fell  from  his  hand.  With  a  last  effort,  he 
controlled  himself,  drew  himself  up,  and,  putting  his 
arms  to  his  side,  soldier-wise,  stood  tensely  at  atten- 
tion. He  raised  his  hand  to  his  bandaged  forehead  in 
a  dazed  military  salute  to  the  soldier  in  the  frame,  as 
though  to  a  superior  officer. 

This  done,  he  suddenly  relaxed,  reeled,  and  would 
have  fallen  save  for  Barry's  quick  support.  Tenderly, 
but  with  all  his  strength,  the  boy  held  his  father  up, 
and  tried  to  get  him  to  a  chair.  He  could  not  do  it. 
Heavy  and  limp,  Colonel  Gordon,  now  unconscious, 
sank  to  the  floor  and  collapsed  utterly. 

Barry,  heart-broken,  kneeled  beside  him,  imploring 
him  to  speak;  but  the  beloved  eyes  were  closed  now, 

[47] 


BARRY  GORDON 

the  mobile  face  had  a  fixed,  vacuous  look,  and  presently 
the  breath,  at  first  laboured,  stopped  entirely. 

With  a  groan,  Barry  rose  and  stood  staring  at  the 
dark,  inscrutable  portrait,  his  eyes  filled  with  hate. 

When  Dr.  Burke,  summoned  by  Joshua,  came  in 
haste,  the  candles  had  burned  out.  The  great  dining- 
room  was  in  darkness,  and  still  as  a  tomb. 

The  doctor  went  and  fetched  his  carriage  lantern. 
By  its  light  he  saw,  near  the  dinner-table,  the  body  of 
his  old  friend  lying  dead.  Between  the  body  and  the  end 
wall,  which  was  now  blank,  the  life-sized  portrait  of 
General  Nicholas  Gordon  lay  flat  on  the  floor,  face 
upward.  Near  it  the  blade  of  a  table-knife  glimmered 
faintly.  The  canvas  was  gashed  through  and  through. 

In  a  chair  pulled  out  from  the  table,  Barry  sat, 
blindly  staring  down  at  the  wrecked  portrait. 


[48] 


BOOK  II 
THE  RAINBOW 


CHAPTER    I 

EVIL    MEMOEIES.      THE   SPREE.      WHAT    BARRY    SAW   IN 

MEADE'S  LEFT  HAND.     A  DOUBLE  EXPOSURE.     HOW 

BARRY  AND  TOM  HURRIED  INTO  THEIR  CLOTHES 

A  GAS-JET  was  lighted  at  one  end  of  the 
dormitory.  Above  the  door  from  the  hall  a 
table-cover  had  been  hung,  to  darken  the 
transom.  Under  the  light,  and  between  two  beds, 
stood  a  table,  littered  with  biscuits,  beer-bottles,  and 
cards.  About  the  table  sat  a  group  of  youths  indulg- 
ing in  a  foretaste  of  college.  Four  or  five,  some  new 
at  it,  some  comparatively  expert,  were  deep  in  a  game 
of  poker.  The  rest  watched  them,  fascinated,  excepting 
one  or  two,  who  had  sunk  back  on  the  beds,  where, 
in  order  to  conceal  a  sickening  dizziness  caused  by  their 
first  fling  with  alcohol  and  tobacco,  they  pretended  to 
be  lounging  comfortably. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  room  Barry  Gordon  lay  in 
bed,  craving  sleep — a  sleep  without  dreams.  Till  re- 
cently he  had  never  known  this  wakefulness.  Sleep  had 
come  to  his  healthy  brain  as  naturally  as  hunger  to  his 
stomach,  air  to  his  lungs,  laughter  to  his  lips ;  but  now, 
like  laughter,  it  came  only  fitfully,  and  with  bitterness. 

[51] 


BARRY  GORDON 

What  phantasms !  Time  and  again  he  saw  portraits 
— throngs  of  flat-painted  ghosts  hopping  about  him 
tipsily  on  the  corners  of  their  gilded  frames,  laughing 
and  winking  at  him,  till  he,  in  the  centre  of  that 
demoniac  dance,  seemed  to  reel  and  fall.  Then  he  would 
wake,  damp  and  shivering. 

It  was  almost  better  to  lie  staring  awake,  as  he  lay 
now.  But  he  felt  very  tired.  His  brain  was  being  worn, 
as  if  by  a  ceaseless  drip  of  thoughts,  always  the  same. 
Behind  him  he  saw  an  endless,  hideous  past;  before 
him  an  endless,  inscrutable  future.  He  was  cast  away 
in  the  middle  of  an  evil  ocean,  and  was  sinking.  He  felt 
tired  trying  to  grasp  something  safe  and  solid. 

He  stared  listlessly  at  the  poker-players.  A  few 
months  ago  he  would  have  been  sitting  there  with  them, 
spreeing  it  with  a  gusto,  but  now  he  was  no  longer  one 
of  them.  His  months  of  brooding  had  turned  them 
against  him.  Others  had  lost  fathers,  but  they  had 
not  moped  as  he  had.  With  brutal  candour,  they  called 
him  a  "  wet  blanket."  The  loss  of  their  companionship 
made  him  very  lonely,  but  he  couldn't  have  enjoyed 
the  game.  He  had  eaten  of  the  fruit  of  the  tree,  and 
now  recognised  even  incipient  evil. 

In  his  heart  he  began  to  loathe  the  ring-leaders  of 
that  group  at  the  other  end  of  the  long  bedroom. 
Their  whispered  jokes,  inane  and  smutty,  mortified 
him.  Their  precocity  disgusted  him.  The  fellows  were 

[52] 


BARRY    GORDON 

aping  men.  He  saw  the  sham,  the  pose.  The  beer  sick- 
ened them ;  the  smoke  choked  them ;  the  game  flushed 
their  faces. 

He  wondered  if  the  spree  would  always  have  looked 
this  way  had  his  eyes  been  earlier  opened.  No,  he 
thought  not.  There  was  a  change  in  them  as  well  as 
in  him.  They  were  under  the  leadership  of  a  newcomer 
at  St.  Clement's. 

Like  himself,  the  fellow  was  a  Virginian,  but  un- 
wholesome and  hard.  Meade  mimicked  maturity  better 
than  the  rest,  and  wore  a  vicious  air  naturally.  He 
was  evidently  the  evil  genius  of  the  game.  When  Meade 
shuffled,  he  shuffled  with  a  manner;  when  he  dealt,  he 
dealt  fast;  when  he  swore,  he  swore  vilely,  glib  with 
the  lowest  slang  of  the  game.  His  hands  were  dexter- 
ous, his  lips  thin,  his  eyes  slits.  He  drank  less  than 
the  others — and  won  more. 

Barry  wished  he  had  not  allowed  himself  to  take 
a  back  seat  and  let  Meade  rule.  The  school  would  go 
from  bad  to  worse.  He  had  been  wild,  but  Meade  was 
low.  The  sight  of  the  fellow  sitting  there  under  the 
gaslight,  his  eyes  so  avid,  his  fingers  so  nimble,  kindled 
Barry's  wrath,  but  he  restrained  himself.  He  was  out 
of  this  for  good  and  all. 

No! 

He  sat  up  in  bed.  Meade,  who  was  dealing,  had 
made  a  queer,  quick  motion  across  the  bottom  of  the 

[53] 


BARRY  GORDON 

pack.  The  others,  picking  up  their  cards,  failed  to 
notice  it.  The  motion  was  deft,  dishonest. 

Impetuously,  Barry  sprang  out  of  bed  and  crossed 
the  room.  Suddenly  he  felt  strong,  active.  There  was 
something  to  do  besides  mere  thinking. 

What  happened  then  he  remembered  later  as  the  sec- 
ond great  storm  in  his  life.  It  was  all  mad,  swift, 
dark. 

As  he  came  to  the  table  the  players  looked  up 
drowsily.  One  of  them  was  Hicks,  hi?  red  hair  mussed, 
his  honest  eyes  sleepy.  Another  was  Barry's  brother 
— a  fair  boy,  who  was  new  at  this,  and  showed  it. 

Hicks  shifted  to  make  room  for  his  friend.  Barry, 
in  his  night-shirt,  seated  himself  opposite  Meade.  He 
rested  an  arm  about  his  brother's  shoulders.  Tom  did 
not  look  up.  His  blue  eyes,  impatient  for  the  deal, 
were  ashamed  and  bashful. 

Meade  counted  out  a  handful  of  beans  and  shoved 
them  toward  Barry. 

"  There's  fifty,"  he  whispered.  "  Limit's  ten.  Want 
to  raise  it?  " 

"  No."  Barry  looked  at  his  brother.  "  Lost  much, 
Tom?" 

Tom  nodded  in  silence. 

"  Why  don't  you  drop  out  ?  "  asked  Barry. 

"  I  wanted  to,  but  Meade  said  it  would  break  up  the 


game." 


[54] 


BARRY    GORDON 

"  Well,  it  won't  now."  He  nudged  Tom,  and  Tom 
took  the  hint.  He  rose  as  inconspicuously  as  possible, 
and  stood  in  his  night-shirt,  watching  them. 

"  Deal,"  said  Barry,  and  Meade,  sullen  at  being 
robbed  of  his  prey,  dealt,  muttering. 

One  of  the  boys  shoved  a  bottle  of  beer  toward 
Barry.  Barry  hid  a  shudder  and  pushed  it  back.  In 
an  offhand  way  he  was  watching  Meade. 

"  Wait ! "  he  suddenly  said,  rising.  Meade  had  his 
left  hand  under  the  table.  "  What  have  you  got  in  that 
hand  ?  "  The  other  players,  with  eyes  and  mouths  wide, 
stared  at  the  dealer.  Those  sick  on  the  beds  sat  up  stu- 
pidly. "  I  dare  you  to  show  it !  "  said  Barry. 

"What  you  talking  about,  Gordon?  Sit  down! 
What's  the  matter  ? "  Meade's  eyes  were  more  slitty 
than  ever.  "  Squealing,  eh,  'cause  your  brother's  cleaned 
out?  Better  be  careful,  Gordon.  I  can  get  even  with 
you ! " 

Barry  winced,  hesitated.  The  threat  was  sickening 
to  contemplate.  Meade  came  from  the  South.  If  he  knew 
anything  and  told  it,  life  would  be  unbearable  here. 

Barry  mustered  up  his  new  strength. 

"  I  dare  you  to  put  your  left  hand  on  the  table," 
he  said  doggedly. 

Meade  did  so,  and  the  hand  was  empty. 

Hicks,  now  wide  awake,  stooped  under  the  table,  and 
they  heard  a  scuffle.  Hicks,  bobbing  up,  said  angrily: 

[55] 


BARRY  GORDON 

"  He  had  his  foot  on  it ! " 

He  threw  an  ace  on  the  table. 

Barry's  eyes  blazed. 

"  Cheat !  "  he  said.  "  You  get  them  drunk,  and  then 
rob  them.  You're  a  cad !  " 

The  boys  stared  up  mutely — some  at  Barry,  some 
at  Meade,  who  had  also  risen.  The  situation  was  at 
first  beyond  them,  the  trick  too  mature  even  for  their 
precocity.  It  was  the  height  of  delicious  wickedness  to 
play  poker  at  all.  The  depths  of  wickedness  they  had 
not  yet  fathomed. 

Meade  came  out  from  behind  the  table.  His  face 
was  indescribably  ugly,  his  manner  full  of  sneering 
revenge. 

"  Drunk,  eh  ?  You're  a  fine  one  to  talk,  you  damned 
stuck-up !  Your  father,  Colonel  Gordon,  eh,  who  com- 
manded Gordon's  Raiders  in  the  Civil  War?  Hell!  I 
know  things!  So  does  every  one  in  the  South.  Your 
father  drank  himself  to  death.  He " 

Meade  staggered  backward  and  fell  to  the  floor,  hit 
full  in  the  face  by  Barry's  fist. 

Barry,  at  once  relaxing,  stood  limp  and  stupefied, 
staring  into  vacancy.  Tom,  awed,  came  and  slipped  a 
hand  through  his  arm.  Others,  badly  scared,  tried  to 
revive  Meade.  They  got  a  pitcher  and  towel  from  a 
washstand  and  bathed  his  forehead. 

Hicks  was  guarding  the  door. 
[56] 


BARRY  CORDON 

"  Barry,"  he  said  desperately,  "  quick !  What  are  you 
going  to  do?  " 

Barry  passed  a  hand  across  his  eyes,  nerved  himself, 
and  got  his  brain  working. 

"  Do  you  think  I'd  stay  here  another  minute  after 
what's  been  said  ?  "  he  exclaimed.  "  No ;  we'll  get  out." 
He  went  and  glanced  down  at  Meade,  to  make  sure 
he  was  recovering,  then  turned  to  Tom.  "  Hurry,  Tom ! 
Dress ! " 

He  was  nearly  crazed  now  by  his  passionate  desire 
to  escape — to  escape,  not  from  the  consequences  of  his 
act,  but  from  the  shame  Meade  had  brought  on  him 
and  on  his  brother.  Anything  but  this  he  could  have 
stood — anything  but  the  consciousness  that  people 
knew. 

He  and  Tom  hastened  to  the  chairs  beside  their 
beds,  scrambled  into  their  clothes,  and  caught  up  their 
shoes  under  their  arms.  Hicks  pulled  the  door  ajar. 

"  Good-bye,  Barry !  Quick !  " 

The  brothers  slipped  out.  Along  the  dark  corridor 
they  stole  in  their  stockinged  feet,  then  down  the  rear 
stairway  and  out  into  the  night.  They  paused,  and, 
hopping  each  on  one  foot,  pulled  on  their  shoes. 

"  Where  shall  we  go  ?  "  asked  Tom. 

"  To  Mr.  Beekman's,"  said  Barry,  without  hesita- 
tion. 

"  Is  he  home  yet?  " 

[57] 


BARRY    GORDON 

"  He  may  be." 

"What  if  the  train's  gone?" 

"  Then  we'll  beg  a  ride  on  a  freight.  Come  along ! " 

They  made  a  bee-line  for  the  station,  running  head- 
long through  the  dark. 

"  What  if  Pierce  gets  there  first  ? "  said  Tom,  as 
they  ran. 

"  Then  it's  all  up,"  said  Barry,  and  set  a  killing 
pace. 

They  plunged  across  country,  stumbling  through 
ploughed  fields,  vaulting  over  stone  walls. 

"  Barry,"  said  Tom,  panting,  "  father  was  really  a 
good  man,  wasn't  he?  " 

Barry,  too,  breathed  hard  as  he  ran. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  with  difficulty,  "  the  best  man  that 
ever  lived." 

But  Barry's  heart  was  like  lead.  The  weight  of  it 
seemed  to  impede  his  speed.  Though  Tom  would  never 
believe  the  truth,  others  would.  As  they  stumbled  on 
through  the  dark,  a  dead  singsong  in  him  kept  re- 
peating the  refrain: 

"  People  know,  people  know !  " 


[58] 


CHAPTER    II 

THE  REFUGEES.      BARRY  MAKES  FRIENDS  WITH  A  WATCH- 
DOG   AND    KEEPS    A    MIDNIGHT    VIGIL.       DAWN 
AND    A     GIRL 

A3LOW   train,  and   afterward   a   long,  tiresome 
walk,   at   last   brought   Barry   and   Tom   to 
their  destination — a  farm  in  the  heart  of  the 
country.  But  by  now  half  the  night  had  slipped  away, 
and  they  were  too  late.  The  house  was  dark  and  shut 
against  them. 

They  stood  on  a  driveway  at  the  edge  of  a  moon- 
lit lawn,  gazing  across  at  it  blankly. 

"  Do  you  think  they've  come  yet  ?  "  asked  Tom. 
"Yes.  The  windows  are  open.  Shall  we  climb  in?  " 
"  No.  We  might  get  shot.  Lord,  I'm  tired ! " 
Tom   was    too    much   disappointed    to    risk    further 
speech. 

Barry  tried  to  laugh  contagiously.  To  him  the  dis- 
appointment meant  less  and  more.  Though  by  birth 
only  a  year  older  than  his  brother,  he  felt  a  life-time 
older  in  experience.  Tom  wanted  any  hole  in  which  to 
hide,  curl  up  and  sleep ;  Barry  wanted  friends.  Tom 
wanted  a  bed,  Barry  a  home.  Tom  wanted  shelter, 

[59] 


BARRY  GORDON 

Barry  sanctuary.  Tom's  body  was  disappointed,  Bar- 
ry's soul. 

And  so,  while  Tom  felt  a  lump  in  his  throat  and 
swallowed  in  secret,  Barry  felt  a  weight  on  his  heart 
and  tried  to  laugh. 

Suddenly  a  clock  far  off  in  the  little  Massachusetts 
village  struck  two.  The  runaways  shifted  uneasily.  That 
meant  that  if  Mr.  Pierce  had  driven  from  the  school, 
he  might  arrive  at  any  moment. 

Barry's  eyes  bade  the  house  a  reluctant  good-bye. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  he,  "  we'll  have  to  keep  on  go- 
ing." 

Tom  frowned. 

"  Where  to?  "  he  managed  to  ask. 

Barry  laughed.  The  question  was  very  practical  and 
sensible.  They  had  no  friends  in  the  world  except  Dr. 
Burke  down  in  Virginia,  and  Barry  felt  that  the  South 
was  forever  a  closed  country  to  him.  Moreover,  they 
had  no  money.  Wherever  they  went,  they  must  go  on 
foot. 

For  a  moment  this  thought  revived  Barry's  earlier 
romantic  mood.  They  would  wander  like  tramps.  He 
put  it  to  Tom,  who  shook  his  head  dumbly.  Though 
plucky  enough  and  hardy  enough,  Tom  lacked  the 
spirit.  Unlike  his  brother,  he  had  never  known  the  rare 
delight  with  which  youth  pictures  itself  vagabond.  His 
mind's  eye  was  blind  to  the  nomadic  joys  now  conjured 

[60] 


BARRY    GORDON 

up  by  Barry — camp-fires,  a  lean-to  in  the  woods,  the 
open  road.  And  so,  while  Barry  stood  there  roving 
over  the  world,  Tom,  fagged  and  sleepy,  shook  his  head. 

"  There  must  be  some  hotel  in  the  village,"  said  he. 
"  Let's  go  back  there.  Mr.  Beekman  will  pay  for  us 
in  the  morning." 

"  Then  Pierce  will  see  him  first,"  objected  Barry. 

"  Let  him !  Come  on !  There's  nothing  else  to  do." 

Barry  hung  back.  The  phrase  nettled  him.  He  had 
always  rebelled  against  that  inevitable  conclusion — 
"  there's  nothing  else  to  do."  It  invariably  meant  a 
tame  climax.  He  peered  about,  far  and  wide,  frowning. 
Suddenly  his  eyes  lighted  up  with  resource. 

"  Wait !  " 

He  was  gazing  at  a  distant  barn  that  loomed  big 
in  the  moonlight.  The  building  lured  him.  It  looked 
hugely  hospitable.  He  loved  barns — the  cattle,  the 
horses,  the  sweet  smell  of  hay,  the  very  cobwebs  and 
rafters.  The  boy  in  him,  •  which  of  late  was  so  often 
overshadowed  by  the  man,  rose  to  the  surface. 

"  If  we  can  get  in  there,"  he  whispered,  "  we're  all 
right.  Come,  let's  try  it !  " 

"  No,"  said  Tom.  "  Listen !  " 

They  hesitated.  The  deep  baying  of  a  dog  boomed 
forth  ominously  from  the  direction  of  the  barn. 

Barry  chuckled.  The  danger  tickled  him.  The  barn 
appealed  to  him  now  more  than  ever. 

[61] 


BARRY  GORDON 

"  Come  ahead !  "  he  commanded  recklessly. 

They  started,  Barry  spiriting  Tom  along.  Stealing 
from  tree  to  tree  to  dodge  the  moonshine,  they  skirted 
the  lawn  and  followed  the  drive  to  the  farmyard.  Here 
at  a  gate  they  paused.  Peering  through  the  shadows, 
they  saw  a  big  St.  Bernard  and  heard  a  clanking. 

"Pooh!"  said  Barry.  "Chained!" 

He  opened  the  gate  and  they  passed  through  into 
the  barnyard.  The  dog  growled,  crouched,  sprang  at 
them.  The  chain  held,  and  the  sudden  clutch  of  his 
collar  choked  him.  Its  grip  doubled  his  gorge.  He 
tugged  at  the  chain  and  barked — barked  so  loud  that 
his  voice  seemed  to  flood  the  night  with  alarms.  In  the 
distance  other  dogs  from  all  directions  began  to  an- 
swer, till  the  whole  countryside  rang  with  a  wild  bark- 
ing, and  the  two  intruders  stood  stock-still,  scared. 

Tom  felt  sick,  and  Barry  tingled  with  anxiety.  The 
dogs  would  wake  the  world.  Men  would  come  running. 
There  would  be  lanterns,  guns,  a  hubbub,  questions, 
wrathy  Beekmans — and  Tom  and  he  the  guilty  cause, 
the  storm-centre  of  the  worst  bother  ever  known.  A 
fine  way  to  introduce  themselves  to  their  guardian! 

Impetuously  he  started  for  the  dog. 

"Don't,"  cried  Tom,  "don't  be  a  fool!  He'll  eat 
you  alive ! " 

He  tried  to  catch  Barry's  coat,  but  missed  it. 

As  Barry  approached  the  dog  he  spoke  low,  calling 
[62] 


BARRY    GORDON 

him  "  good  old  boy  "  with  a  note  so  at  one  with  animal 
nature  that  it  sounded  almost  brotherly.  His  voice  was 
like  his  father's — full  of  tone  and  magnetism,  full  of 
creature  sympathy. 

"  Good  old  boy,  what's  the  matter  ?  " 

Instantly  the  dog  relaxed,  settled  to  all  fours,  and 
waited. 

Barry  went  to  him  open-hearted,  stroked  his  majestic 
head,  and  clapped  him  on  the  ribs  in  a  rough  hail- 
fellow  way. 

The  touch  won.  The  dog  quieted,  and  began  to  wag 
his  tail  with  a  sort  of  tentative  dignity.  Gradually  the 
other  dogs,  lacking  incentive,  ceased  their  din,  and  the 
night  was  still  again. 

The  brothers  looked  up  at  the  barn.  The  main  doors, 
wide  and  double,  ^were  closed.  Barry  tried  them.  They 
held.  He  led  the  way  around  a  corner.  Above  an  old 
stone  wall  the  glass  of  a  window  reflected  the  moon. 
He  mounted  the  wall  and  reached  up.  As  luck  would 
have  it,  the  window  gave. 

In  another  moment  he  was  sprawling  across  the  sill, 
straining  his  gaze  into  a  great  void.  Save  where  the 
moon  rays  slanted  across  a  whitewashed  wall  and  shad- 
owy farm  machinery,  he  could  see  nothing.  But  he 
heard  a  stirring  in  straw  and  the  breathing  of  many 
cattle. 

He  straddled  the  sill,  and,  dropping  in,  landed  on 
[63] 


BARRY  GORDON 

a  mound  of  hay.  Righting  himself,  he  went  to  the  big 
doors,  shot  back  the  bolt,  parted  them,  and  whistled. 
Tom  came  around  into  the  barn. 

Pulling  the  doors  nearly  shut,  Barry  stood  at  the 
crack  and  looked  toward  the  dwelling-house.  His  gaze 
was  on  the  main  gateway. 

"  We'll  have  to  take  turns  keeping  an  eye  out  for 
Pierce,"  he  said.  He  consulted  a  large  gold-faced 
watch,  which  had  been  his  father's.  "  You're  tuckered, 
Tom,  so  you  go  to  sleep  first.  I'll  wake  you  at  three; 
then  you  keep  guard  till  daylight.  Whichever  sees 
Pierce  coming  lets  the  other  know.  There's  a  pile  of 
hay  under  the  window." 

"  All  right,"  said  Tom,  and  started  for  bed.  Half- 
way he  hesitated.  "  Barry !  " 

"What?" 

Tom  returned  to  him. 

"  Barry,  you're  a  brick,  and  I'm  not.  I'm  no  good 
at  this  kind  of  thing." 

Barry  smiled.  That  was  like  Tom.  He  had  faults, 
but  he  acknowledged  them.  He  had  a  sort  of  courage 
that  seemed  to  Barry  greater  than  his  own.  He  was 
open,  transparent,  white,  without  shadows,  without 
mysteries  of  nature  and  experience. 

Barry  turned  and  looked  at  his  brother  affection- 
ately in  silence.  Tom's  hair  shone  in  the  moonlight  like 
pale  gold.  It  suggested  their  mother — the  image  of  her 

[64] 


BARRY  GORDON 

graven  on  Barry's  mind  by  his  father.  He  remembered 
the  description — "  with  hair  as  much  like  daytime  as 
yours  is  like  night." 

He  turned  away  again. 

"  You  needn't  be  sorry,"  he  said,  gazing  off  wist- 
fully. "  You're  worth  dozens  of  me." 

Too  sleepy  to  protest  in  words,  Tom  shook  his  head, 
sought  the  hay,  and  in  a  moment  lay  asleep. 

Barry  stood  long  at  the  crack,  then  paced  to  and 
fro  in  the  darkness,  with  only  the  breathing  and  stir- 
ring and  cud-chewing  of  the  unseen  herd  to  break  the 
silence  of  his  vigil. 

In  moments  of  waiting  his  thoughts  had  a  way  of 
roving  far  afield,  even  while  he  stuck  alertly  to  his 
post.  It  was  as  if  he  were  split  into  two  selves — the 
under  self  keen  and  ready,  the  upper  self  tossing  on 
a  sea  of  dreams.  So  it  was  to-night.  While  he  watched 
he  dreamed,  imagined  himself  a  sentinel  in  war,  peo- 
pled the  night  with  opposing  forces,  dotted  the  lawn 
with  friendly  bivouacs,  and  filled  the  outlying  dark- 
ness with  hostile  ambuscades.  The  dreams  were  fluid. 
Shrubs  and  bushes  stole  nearer,  and  the  shadows  length- 
ened toward  him  as  the  moon  sank. 

Then  action.  The  camp  seemed  to  awake.  He  heard 
bugles  call,  horses  stampede,  musketry  rattle,  shells  ex- 
plode. And  now  the  old  terrors,  mixing  with  these, 
began  to  riot  in  his  brain.  The  imaginary  battle  took 

[65] 


BARRY  GORDON 

on  a  more  terrible  significance.  It  became  historic,  a 
battle  in  the  Civil  War;  and  the  friendly  troops  were 
Gordon's  Raiders,  and  there  in  the  thick  of  it  all, 
towering  on  a  charger  and  fighting  gloriously,  rode 
his  father. 

Then  suddenly  the  scene  dissolved.  He  saw  a  man 
with  a  glass,  drunkenly  confronting  a  vicious  portrait 
on  the  wall.  Sick  at  heart,  he  tried  to  regain  his  first 
phantasm.  He  had  a  swift,  fierce  desire  to  see  the  battle- 
horse  rear,  as  in  paintings,  and  his  father  fall  mor- 
tally wounded — a  martyred  hero  of  the  Civil  War. 

How  much  better!  How  much  better  than  this  orgy 
of  portraits,  capering  monkey-like  around  the  crazed 
figure  he  had  once  worshipped  and  still  loved ! 

He  staggered  against  the  door  and  clinched  his  fist. 
As  he  did  so,  the  bite  of  his  nails  on  his  palm  seemed 
to  awake  him.  Though  his  eyes  had  not  once  been 
closed,  he  thought  he  must  have  been  asleep — he,  a 
sentinel!  He  deserved  to  be  drummed  out  of  camp, 
his  sword  broken.  What  a  way  to  start  on  his  life 
struggle ! 

At  three  he  woke  Tom,  and,  throwing  himself  down 
on  the  hay,  sank  into  a  troubled  sleep. 

Tom  kept  guard  methodically,  reliably.  Discovering 
a  bag  of  meal,  he  dragged  it  to  the  door,  and,  seating 
himself  at  the  crack,  pinched  himself  at  regular  in- 
tervals to  keep  awake.  He  thought  about  nothing  but 

[66] 


BARRY  GORDON 

breakfast,  and  cocked  an  eye  now  and  then  at  the  main 
gateway. 

When  finally  the  gray  light  rose  and  spread  across 
the  lawn,  he  went  and  touched  Barry,  who  sat  up  and 
muttered  inaudibly.  Believing  him  awake,  Tom  lay 
down  beside  him,  famished  for  forty  winks,  and  again 
slept. 

Barry,  slightly  disturbed  as  if  in  a  dream,  also  lay 
back  again  and  slept — slept  till  at  last  he  heard  a 
sound,  and  a  gradual  light  stole  across  his  eyes.  He 
woke  slowly  and  looked  up.  The  doors  were  wide  open, 
admitting  a  flood  of  sunshine  to  the  barn.  Outside 
stood  a  young  girl,  gazing  in  at  him  as  though  from 
the  heart  of  the  dawn. 


[67] 


CHAPTER    III 

THEIR    FIRST    MEETING.        BARRY    SEES    A    METAPHORICAL 
RAINBOW    AND    STRIVES    TO    GRASP    IT,    BUT    BREAK- 
FAST   INTERVENES ALSO    TOM 

BARRY  sat  up,  noticed  that  Tom  was  still 
asleep,  and  rose,  dazed.  He  had  dimly  seen 
her  somewhere  before. 

They  stood  awkwardly  silent  a  moment,  the  girl 
wondering,  Barry  apologetic  and  shy.  Then  he  in- 
stinctively began  to  feel  that  though  he  must  have 
seemed  little  better  than  a  tramp  who  had  stolen  a 
night's  lodging,  she  was  neither  afraid  nor  unfriendly. 

He  raised  his  eyes  and  looked,  and  while  he  looked 
self-consciousness  fell  utterly  away.  He  lost  himself 
in  a  dumb  gaze.  The  impression  she  made  on  him  came 
swiftly  and  struck  deep.  It  was  not  a  definable  im- 
pression— he  was  too  young  for  that — but  even  then 
in  his  early  youth,  blind  instinct  made  him  hers.  It 
seemed  to  suggest  that  if  she  only  would,  she  could 
supply  some  need  within  him.  She  possessed  him  as  the 
sight  of  a  clear  stream  might  possess  a  boy  parched 
with  thirst,  or  fire  a  boy  chilled,  or  light  a  boy  long 
shut  in  the  dark.  . 

[68] 


BARRY    GORDON 

Through  the  black  months  since  his  father's  death, 
crying  needs  like  these,  but  far  more  poignant  because 
spiritual,  had  tortured  Barry,  awake  and  asleep,  up  to 
this  very  moment.  And  now  came  the  dawn  of  a  spring 
day,  not  vaguely  encouraging  like  all  spring  days,  but 
embodied  in  a  girl — a  girl  of  his  own  age — a  girl  who, 
he  felt,  was  somehow  in  accord  with  him. 

As  for  her  looks,  he  could  not  have  described  them 
definitely.  Her  image  merely  floated  on  his  retina.  He 
was  not  yet  old  enough  to  be  conscious  of  the  details 
of  this  impression  either;  but  later  on,  when  again 
and  again  he  recalled  their  first  meeting,  he  interpreted 
it  so  vividly  that  the  moment  never  died. 

This  is  the  picture  his  memory  painted  in  after 
years : 

She  stood  in  a^  lake  of  sunshine,  her  figure  against 
the  sky.  He  saw  that  she  was  small  and  slender,  and 
knew  vaguely  that  the  sunlight  was  in  her  black  hair, 
shining  there  with  a  dark,  cool  lustre  as  he  had  seen 
it  in  pools  in  the  woods.  Her  features  were  irregular, 
but  so  delicately  drawn,  or  rather  sketched,  and  in  such 
harmony  with  the  piquant  littleness  of  her  person,  that 
her  face  had  a  rare  magic  as  of  adding  to  all  beauty 
a  new  touch,  light  as  air,  poignant  as  pain.  Her  skin 
was  very  fair,  and  fine  as  rose-leaves ;  her  lips  were 
red  as  a  cardinal  flower;  her  little  tip-tilted  nose  was 
the  perfect  symbol  of  a  whim. 

[69] 


BARRY  GORDON 

Yet  her  piquancy  was  not  conscious,  but  natural ; 
not  of  body  only,  but  of  spirit  more;  not  a  pose, 
but  a  poise.  In  the  girls  he  had  known  among  the 
sisters  of  his  schoolmates,  this  sort  of  thing  had 
hinted  of  high-heeled  shoes,  but  in  her  it  suggested 
wings. 

This  elusive  quality  in  her  seemed  to  strike  the  very 
keynote  of  his  nature.  He  had  a  feeling  as  of  rising 
from  a  pit  into  infinity ;  as  of  an  actual  winged  ascent 
into  an  ether  of  cool  light.  Shame  and  horror  were  fall- 
ing away,  and  all  ugliness.  He  was  being  drawn  up  into 
sheer  purity.  He  did  not  seem  to  live.  He  saw  nothing 
save  her  eyes ;  knew  nothing  save  that  they  drew  him 
to  her.  They  were  not  large  eyes  and  not  very  dark, 
but  their  slight  almond  shape,  long  lashes,  and  finely 
etched  brows  imbued  them  with  an  elusive  mystery. 
What  their  colour  was  he  did  not  know,  did  not  wonder. 
They  were  transfused,  perhaps,  with  gray  and  green  and 
hazel  lights,  but  he  knew  only  that  they  were  looking 
at  him. 

After  a  long  moment  of  silence  he  saw  them  brighten, 
and  she  spoke. 

"  I  know  who  you  are,"  she  declared  with  sudden  de- 
light. "  You're  Barry  Gordon !  "  Her  glance  sparkled  at 
the  bundle  on  the  hay.  "  And  there's  Tom !  " 

Her  voice  was  so  like  her  gaze  that  Barry  felt  as  if 
the  light  in  her  eyes  had  welled  into  speech.  He  heard 

[70] 


BARRY  GORDON 

in  it  the  spirit  of  this  April  morning — laughter  bright 
as  tears. 

"  How  did  you  know?  "  he  asked  faintly. 

"  I've  seen  you  before,"  she  said. 

His  eyes  were  perplexed.  He  moved  nearer  to  her 
across  the  threshold  into  the  sunshine. 

"  So  have  I  seen  you,"  he  told  her.  Then  suddenly  his 
face  cleared.  "  Ah,  now  I  know — at  the  game !  Jove, 
that's  queer !  Are  you  Muriel  Beekman  ?  " 

She  nodded,  and  lightly  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

Coming  close  to  her  he  clasped  it  shyly,  and  the 
friendly  contact  sent  so  warm  a  balm  through  his  veins 
that  he  forgot  to  release  it.  As  their  recognition 
deepened  he  became  bolder.  His  grasp  grew  so  fervent 
that  at  last  he  hurt  her,  and  felt  her  little  hand  flutter- 
ing in  his  palm  like  a  caught  bird.  Shame-struck,  he  let 
it  slip  away  and  stood  so  forlornly  downcast  that 
Muriel  laughed. 

"  You  funny  fellow !  " 

Hurt,  he  raised  his  eyes. 

"Why  am  I  funny?" 

"  Because  you're  so  sorry."  Her  face  fell  serious,  but 
was  still  kind  and  natural.  "  If  you  weren't  sorry,  it 
wouldn't  be  funny  at  all." 

Her  lashes  did  not  droop;  she  looked  at  him  with  a 
quiet  candour  more  tantalising  than  any  coquetry. 

Barry  suddenly  felt  a  new  power  in  him — something 
[71] 


BARRY  GORDON 

dynamic  and  amazing — something  capable  of  conquer- 
ing the  world. 

"  I'm  not  sorry,"  he  said  deliberately ;  "  I'm  glad !  " 

He  did  not  quite  know  what  Muriel  did  then,  but  it 
seemed  like  the  closing  of  a  flower's  petals  or  the  flicker- 
ing of  a  light. 

"  Muriel,"  he  said,  as  if  calling. 

Then  again  she  laughed,  and  her  laugh  made  every- 
thing happy  and  real. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here  ?  "  she  asked  simply. 

"  All  night,"  said  Barry. 

"  Why  didn't  you  come  to  the  house?  " 

"  We  arrived  too  late." 

"  Poor  Barry,  you  must  be  hungry." 

Now  that  everything  was  so  enchantingly  practical, 
her  voice,  which  had  before  dissolved  him  into  vaporous 
soul-stuff,  suddenly  gave  him  a  huge  appetite. 

"  I  am !  "  he  exclaimed  ardently. 

"  Come,"  said  Muriel,  "  let's  wake  Tom." 

Barry  demurred.  It  was  nice  to  be  entranced  by  these 
cheery  prosaics,  far  better  than  to  risk  losing  her  in 
air;  but  he  balked  at  waking  Tom.  Tom,  much  as  he 
loved  him,  would  be  one  mere  fact  too  many.  Wake  him, 
and  the  idyll  would  collapse. 

"  I  think,"  said  he,  "  Tom  really  needs  sleep." 

Once  more  Muriel  laughed  at  him.  She  looked  down 
at  Tom  and  affectionately  spoke  his  name. 

[72] 


BARRY  GORDON 

"  Don't !  "  Barry  besought  her. 

But  his  plea  seemed  only  to  spur  her  on.  She  was  now 
determined  to  wake  Tom. 

Barry  turned  away  chagrined,  too  inexperienced  to 
know  that  femininity  should  be  read  backwards,  like 
Yiddish. 

"  Tom,  wake  up !  "  said  Muriel  with  exasperating  in- 
terest. "  It's  time  for  breakfast,  Tom.  Wake  up !  " 

Barry  felt  that  she  was  bending  over  and  gently 
touching  the  bright  fair  boy  in  the  hay.  He  turned 
forlornly  to  look.  As  Tom  sat  up  and  rose,  wondering, 
those  two  seemed  a  pair  to  him,  both  made  of  the  sun- 
light and  the  spring  day — and  he  a  superfluous  shadow. 

He  stepped  out  into  the  farmyard  trying  to  assume 
a  strolling  air,  an  interest  in  the  trees  and  in  a  small 
far  cloud  that  drifted  like  a  puff  of  smoke  across  his 
vision.  But  this  painful  excursion,  robbing  him  of  their 
words,  filled  him  with  imaginings  still  more  unhappy. 
Their  voices  and  laughter  were  eloquent  of  greetings 
so  mutually  pleasant.  And  when  they  came  from  the 
barn  into  the  farmyard,  talking  intimately,  and  he  saw 
her  hand  resting  on  Tom's  shoulder,  he  felt  lonelier 
still.  Nevertheless  he  kept  a  calm  front,  joined  them  as 
if  he  had  forgotten  them,  and  politely  asked  Tom  how 
he  had  slept. 

Tom,  conscious  of  nothing  but  the  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  was  not  even  puzzled  by  this  punctiliousness. 

[73] 


BARRY  GORDON 

He  replied  affably  that  he  had  slept  well,  and  they 
started  for  the  house,  Muriel  sandwiched  between 
them. 

"  Are  you  very  hungry?  "  she  asked  Tom. 

"  You  bet  I  am !  "  he  exclaimed,  carefully  keeping 
step  with  her  so  as  not  to  lose  her  hand  from  his 
shoulder. 

"  It's  very  early,"  she  said,  "  but  we'll  have  breakfast 
right  off.  It  doesn't  matter  as  long  as  father's  away." 

"  Away ! "  exclaimed  Barry,  taken  aback,  and  Tom 
whistled. 

Muriel  looked  perplexed  and  was  about  to  ask  lead- 
ing questions ;  but  Barry  began  talking  volubly. 

"  What  a  bully  old  house !  How  long  have  you  been 
here?  You  live  in  New  York  in  winter,  don't  you?  It 
must  be  fine  in  New  York — so  many  theatres  and  people 
and  things  to  do."  His  words  were  racing  with  the 
thoughts  he  imagined  she  was  thinking.  "  I've  decided 
to  live  there  myself  some  day." 

For  a  moment  she  made  no  reply  to  this  loquacity, 
but  when  she  did  she  caught  him  up  into  the  seventh 
heaven  of  delight. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  bashfully,  "you  are  going  to  live 
there  with  us" 

His  eyes  brightened.  Suddenly  across  the  inscrutable 
future  there  stretched  a  rainbow. 

In  the  few  minutes  of  their  walk  to  the  house  Muriel 
[74] 


BARRY  GORDON 

afforded  the  two  brothers  quick  glimpses  into  the 
present  condition  of  her  little  world.  They  learned  that 
her  father,  who  was  the  president  of  a  railroad  and  a 
man  of  affairs,  had  returned  from  abroad  the  week  be- 
fore. Since  then  he  had  been  kept  in  New  York  on 
business,  and  she  had  come  to  the  country  ahead  of  him 
to  open  the  house.  Her  mother,  who  seemed  to  be  a 
scholarly  woman,  very  unusual  and  independent,  was 
still  in  Europe  and  might  stay  there  for  months  or  even 
years. 

This  was  all  elicited  and  conveyed  almost  without  con- 
versation, without  a  single  completed  sentence.  The  in- 
tercourse of  bees  could  scarcely  have  been  more  im- 
palpable. It  was  all  in  the  gossamer  language  of  youth. 
Muriel  darted  from  fact  to  fact  as  lightly  as  a  humming 
bird  touches  flowers,  though  so  vividly  that  Barry  and 
Tom  already  felt  at  home. 

When  they  came  to  the  quaint  old  house,  Muriel  went 
ahead  into  a  long  low-studded  hall,  rang  for  a  servant 
and  told  her  to  show  them  to  certain  guest-rooms.  Tom, 
impatient  for  breakfast,  hurried  up-stairs,  but  Barry 
hung  back  on  the  porch. 

Muriel  looked  down  at  him  inquiringly  from  the  door- 
step. 

"  Aren't  you  coming,  Barry?  What's  the  matter?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  don't  think  I  have  any  right  to.  If 
your  father  was  here  it  would  be  different ;  but  you  see, 

[75] 


BARRY  GORDON 

if  Pierce  comes,  you  won't  know  what  to  do.  It  will  be 
an  awful  bother  for  you." 

"  Who's  Pierce  ?  "  she  asked,  with  a  pretty  frown  of 
bewilderment. 

"  Pierce  is  a  fish !  He's  the  principal  of  St.  Clement's." 
He  hesitated.  "  I  say,  Muriel — don't  go  back  on  us,  will 
you  ?  "  Then  the  whole  story  burst  from  him  honestly. 
4k  The  fact  is  we  had  to  cut  and  run.  A  fellow  said  some- 
thing I  couldn't  stand,  so  I  knocked  him  out ;  but  it 
wasn't  the  fight  that  made  me  leave.  It  was  the  thing  he 
said.  I  couldn't  bear  to  stay  there  another  minute." 

As  he  looked  up  at  her  his  dark  face,  not  handsome 
but  very  striking,  was  strained  with  appeal;  his  dark 
variable  eyes  seemed  to  crave  her  good  will. 

"  Muriel,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  care  a  bit  about  Pierce 
if  only  you  won't  go  back  on  me — I  mean  on  us.  Or  if 
you  do  go  back  on  me,  I  hope  you  won't  on  Tom.  Tom 
didn't  do  anything." 

She  looked  at  him  with  more  interest  then  than  she 
had  shown  at  all,  and  her  eyes  though  bashful  were 
kind.  From  her  father  she  had  learned  that  Barry  and 
Tom  were  slightly  older  than  she;  but  her  summers 
alone  with  him  here,  while  her  mother  restlessly  travelled 
abroad,  had  developed  her  beyond  her  years.  In  New 
York,  where  she  went  to  a  fashionable  day-school,  it  was 
all  very  different ;  but  here  she  lived  a  life  within  her- 
self— a  life  of  dreams  and  books  and  thoughts  that 

[76] 


BARRY    GORDON 

seemed  to  her  very  deep  and  wonderful.  So  she  felt 
both  younger  and  older  than  these  bewildering  new- 
comers. 

She  spoke  at  last  with  a  clear  sweet  earnestness,  a 
wave  of  colour  rising  from  her  neck  even  to  the  tips  of 
her  little  ears. 

"  Barry,"  she  said,  "  I  don't  like  many  people.  I 
think  I'm  too  reserved.  I  never  talk  to  any  one  in  the 
world  about  my  true  self,  or  the  things  I  dream  about, 
or  anything  very  serious,  because — oh,  I  suppose  it's 
just  because  I  am  /.  But  I  do  want  to  tell  you  that  my 
father  loved  yours  very  dearly.  The  other  day  when  he 
spoke  of  his  death,  his  voice  was  unlike  any  voice  I  had 
ever  heard.  When  he  spoke  of  you  and  Tom,  he  said, 
'  Muriel,  those  boys  are  left  to  me  as  a  sacred  trust.  I 
appoint  you  co-trustee.'  "  She  smiled.  "  Father,  you  see, 
is  a  business  man  and  talks  like  that.  I  didn't  know  at 
first  what  he  meant,  but  he  said  he  meant  " — she  paused, 
her  colour  deepening — "  he  meant  that  he  and  I  must 
take  care  of  you  as  we  do  of  each  other." 

Barry's  heart  rose  to  his  eyes  and  seemed  to  outpour 
to  her. 

She  timidly  drew  back. 

He  stepped  up  to  the  threshold  as  if  longing  to  sur- 
render himself  to  her,  soul  and  body.  Now  she  felt  as  if 
she  had  suddenly  become  much  younger  than  he,  and 
she  was  vaguely  disturbed.  But  she  had  a  light  and 

[77] 


BARRY  GORDON 

casual  way  with  her  that  seemed  to  Barry  a  sort  of 
impalpable  armour. 

She  turned  away  from  him  toward  the  dining-room. 

"  Barry,"  she  said,  "  if  you  don't  hurry,  you  won't 
be  ready  for  breakfast !  " 


[78] 


CHAPTER  IV 

CONCERNING   MR.    BEEKMAN,    AND   HOW  THE    PART   IN   HIS 

HAIR    FASCINATED    BARRY.        A    POINTED    INTERVIEW. 

LIFE  IS  EVIDENTLY  A  SERIOUS   BUSINESS,   BUT 

THERE    GOES     MURIEL    WITH    TOM! 


SOON  after  breakfast,  Peter  Best,  the  English 
gardener,  brought  in  an  armful  of  flowers. 
Muriel  was  arranging  them  in  bowls  and  vases, 
and  Barry  and  Tom  were  helping  her  with  awkward 
eagerness,  when  wheels  crunched  on  the  gravelled  drive. 
Muriel  flew  to  the  door.  Through  the  window,  the  two 
boys  saw  a  groom  jump  from  the  rear  of  a  dog-cart  and 
go  to  the  horse's  4iead,  then  a  tall  gentleman,  dropping 
the  reins,  stepped  down  to  the  porch,  and  Muriel  on  tip- 
toe threw  her  arms  about  his  neck.  They  saw  her  whisper 
in  his  ear,  saw  him  nod  and  pat  her,  and  heard  him 
laugh. 

As  Mr.  Beekman  entered  the  room,  he  wore  a  frown, 
with  a  smile  playing  under  it.  Tom  saw  only  the  frown 
and  lost  his  sturdy  look.  Barry  felt  the  inner  smile,  and 
quickly  returned  it. 

Mr.  Beekman  frowned  the  more  at  this.  He  shook 
hands  in  silence,  first  with  Tom.  Then  he  drew  back  a 
step  and  studied  him. 

[79] 


BARRY  GORDON 

"  Your  mother's  son,"  he  said  at  length,  half  to  him- 
self, and  his  strong,  impressive  face  seemed  to  soften  as 
Barry  had  seen  his  father's  face  soften  under  the  spell 
of  some  gentle  memory.  "  If  looks  count,"  he  said 
slowly,  "  you're  a  safe  risk." 

Tom  smiled  up  at  him,  reassured.  He  did  not  quite 
understand,  but  the  remark  seemed  encouraging. 

Barry  was  lost  in  admiration  of  Muriel's  father. 
Peculiarly  enough,  the  first  thing  he  noticed  about  him 
was  the  part  in  his  hair.  It  looked  so  exactly  straight 
that  Barry  thought  he  must  have  been  at  great  pains  to 
contrive  it.  From  that  admirable  part  over  one  temple 
his  iron-gray  hair  lay  like  a  sword-blade  across  his  fore- 
head. What  with  this  and  his  autocratic  eyes  and 
erect  carriage,  his  good  clothes  looked  so  much  a  part 
of  him  that  the  fact  that  he  dressed  well  seemed  to  go 
without  saying. 

Altogether  Mr.  Beekman  had  a  strong  fine  finish 
about  him,  like  a  model  dynamo  or  well-made  rifle.  And 
when  he  talked,  his  vibrant  voice  seemed  not  only  to 
be  speaking  but  recording  truths  as  little  to  be  dis- 
puted as  the  Ten  Commandments.  Each  word  seemed 
to  speed  through  his  mind  and  come  out  like 
minted  gold,  stamped  with  authority  and  ringing 
true. 

Turning  from  Tom,  Mr.  Beekman  waited,  and  when 
Barry  came  forward,  he  bent  an  ironical  gaze  on  the 

[80] 


BARRY  GORDON 

boy  as  if  challenging  him  to  show  in  a  look  what  stuff 
he  was  made  of. 

The  challenge  was  accepted  unflinchingly.  Barry's 
eyes  narrowed  and  gave  back  as  good  as  they  got.  Then 
Mr.  Beekman  smiled  and  Barry  smiled,  and  they  seemed 
to  warm  to  each  other. 

"  A  chip  of  the  old  block,"  said  Mr.  Beekman  to  him- 
self ;  "  a  magnificent  gamble ! "  He  turned  immediately 
and  led  the  way  to  another  room.  "  Come,  Barry,  we'll 
talk  business  in  the  library." 

The  interview  was  short  and  pointed.  Mr.  Beekman 
did  not  even  seat  himself.  He  stood  with  an  impenetrable 
look,  facing  his  ward.  This  made  it  incumbent  on  Barry 
to  speak  first — a  necessity  that  seemed  cruel  but  soon 
began  to  stimulate  his  courage. 

"  Mr.  Beekman,  I'm  in  a  mess." 

Mr.  Beekman  nodded,  as  if  in  recognition  of  a  per- 
fectly self-evident  fact. 

"  Then  you've  heard  ?  "  asked  Barry. 

"  Yes." 

"  I  suppose  Muriel  told  you.  What  did  she  want  you 
to  do — send  me  back?  If  she  did,  I'll  go  like  a  shot." 

Mr.  Beekman  slowly  lifted  his  eyebrows. 

"  What  if  7  want  you  to  go  back  ?  " 

"  Then  I'll  have  to." 

"  Yes.  You  understand  your  position  perfectly.  And 
[81] 


BARRY  GORDON 

whatever   Muriel's    immature   views   may   be,    they   are 
overbalanced  by  those  of  Mr.  Pierce." 

Barry  started. 

"  Then  you've  heard  from  him?  " 

"  Yes.  I  found  a  telegram  waiting  for  me  at  the 
station." 

"  I'll  bet  he's  hot." 

"  Yes,  he  advises  stern  measures." 

"  Hang  old  Pierce!  How  about  the  cad  I  struck?  Did 
I  hurt  him  much?  " 

Mr.  Beekman  kept  evasively  silent,  knitting  his 
straight  iron-gray  brows.  He  was  lost  in  thought  so 
long  that  Barry,  with  sudden  impatience,  dropped  the 
whole  troublesome  matter  from  his  mind.  As  this  left 
him  care-free  and  more  observant  of  externals,  his 
glance  again  lit  on  Mr.  Beekman's  head. 

Mr.  Beekman  frowned  uneasily. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  about  ?  " 

The  question  caught  Barry  back  into  the  whirlpool. 

"  Nothing.  At  least — I'd  rather  not  tell.  It  might 
seem  rude " 

"  Out  with  it !  I've  got  to  fathom  you." 

When  Barry  confessed,  he  did  so  whole-heartedly. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  said  he,  "  that  I  wished  to  good- 
ness my  hair  would  lie  down  as  flat  as  yours." 

Without  the  slightest  change  of  expression  Mr.  Beek- 
man gazed  at  him.  Finally  he  said : 

[82] 


BARRY    GORDON 

"  Barry,  you're  as  hard  to  guess  on  as  the  wheat 
crop.  I  suppose  all  wild-oat  crops  are,  but  I'm  bullish 
on  you.  I'm  going  long  of  wild  oats.  The  yield  may  not 
be  large,  and  the  price  is  always  high.  You'll  find  that 
out  when  you  have  to  pay  it." 

Barry  looked  puzzled  but  somewhat  encouraged,  and 
replied  to  these  vague  oracles  specifically  and  to  the 
point. 

"  Then  I  didn't  hurt  him  much?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Beekman. 

"  And  you're  not  going  to  send  me  back?  " 

Mr.  Beekman  drew  from  his  breast-pocket  a  silver 
case,  took  out  a  cigarette,  neatly  went  through  a  like 
process  with  a  match-box  and  match,  and  was  soon  ex- 
haling films  of  smoke. 

These  films  greatly  exasperated  Barry  by  veiling  his 
fate.  At  last  he  desperately  cried  out : 

"Mr.  Beekman — what  are  you  going  to  do?  I  own 
up  I've  raised  Cain  at  school  ever  since  I've  been 
there." 

Mr.  Beekman  heaved  a  short  sigh  of  relief,  as  if  he 
had  been  waiting  and  hoping  for  this.  Then  he  re- 
sponded quietly: 

"  Let  me  congratulate  you  on  this  confession." 

"  Yes,  but  just  the  same,"  said  Barry  with  a  last 
flash,  "  Pierce  is  a  fish !  " 

Mr.  Beekman  smiled  indulgently,  as  though  nothing 
[83] 


BARRY    GORDON 

mattered  now  that  he  had  accomplished  some  hidden 
end. 

"  Why  did  you  hit  that  fellow?  "  he  asked. 

Barry  hesitated.  Deep  reserve  and  the  remembrance 
of  Meade's  soul-stinging  exposure  kept  him  silent. 

"  What  had  he  done?  "  urged  Mr.  Beekman. 

Barry's  face  flushed.  When  he  answered,  he  spoke  low 
and  bitterly. 

"  He  said  things  about  my  father." 

Mr.  Beekman  started,  looked  as  if  he  had  inwardly 
sworn,  and  tossing  his  cigarette  into  the  fireplace,  put 
his  hands  on  Barry's  shoulders. 

"  Then  I  don't  blame  you !  I  don't  blame  you !  Barry, 
you  defended  the  memory  of  my  best  friend."  Then,  with 
a  sudden  change  to  briskness,  he  said :  "  You  go  to 
college  next  autumn,  don't  you  ?  That  was  your  father's 
plan,  I  believe.  I  understand  you  took  your  preliminaries 
last  year  and  go  up  for  your  finals  next  month.  Can 
you  pass  them  ?  " 

"  I  usually  slide  through  my  exams." 

"  Then  I  shall  write  to  Mr.  Pierce  and  say  you  will 
not  return  to  school.  For  the  next  few  months  we  want 
you  and  Tom  here  with  us.  We  want  to  absorb  you 
into  the  family." 

Barry  moved  closer,  full  of  gratitude;  but  all  he 
could  say  was: 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Beekman,  we  want  to  be  here." 
[84] 


BARRY  GORDON 

"  Remember  two  or  three  things,"  said  his  guardian, 
seeking  refuge  from  the  moment's  embarrassment  by 
gliding  into  generalities.  "  Life's  a  business,  and  we're 
all  employees  of  the  Owner  of  this  business.  At  the  end 
He  wants  a  clean  balance-sheet.  Your  duty  may  be  to 
work.  If  it  is,  work  hard.  If  it's  to  play,  play  virtuously. 
Your  wages  may  be  high,  they  may  be  low;  but  what- 
ever you  do,  don't  join  the  ranks  of  the  unemployed 
cynics.  Don't  complain  and  send  the  business  to  the 
demnition  bow-wows.  In  other  words,  don't  go  out  on 
strike ! " 

He  paused.  To  his  surprise,  his  homily  seemed  to  have 
fallen  on  deaf  ears.  Barry's  gaze  had  drifted  past  him 
to  the  window  and  was  now  held  by  something  in  the 
outer  day.  Puzzled  by  the  look  of  loneliness  in  his  eyes, 
Mr.  Beekman  turned  to  the  window. 

Far  in  a  meadow  Muriel  was  wandering  with  Tom. 

Mr.  Beekman  turned  back  to  Barry. 

"  Go  out  to  them,"  he  said  kindly.  "  You  and  Tom 
are  now  Muriel's  brothers." 


[85] 


CHAPTER  V 

BARRY    AND    TOM    IN    THE    SAME    BOAT.    THEIR    EARLIEST 
FIRES.    MURIEL,    ALTERNATES.     HER    LITTLE    SONG 

A  first,  Barry  and  Tom  were  content  to  share 
Muriel's  comradeship.  From  morning  to 
night,  walking  or  driving  or  picnicking  in 
the  woods,  both  were  with  her.  On  stormy  days  the 
three  often  foraged  through  the  book-shelves,  and 
for  hours  Muriel,  curled  up  in  a  big  armchair,  read 
aloud. 

Those  were  happy  days  for  all  of  them — half  lived, 
half  dreamed.  But  then  the  pent-up  life  of  spring  burst 
into  summer,  and  the  world  blazed,  and  sparks  from  the 
conflagration  lit  on  the  two  brothers  and  started  their 
earliest  fires. 

They  began  to  chafe  in  their  double  harness.  Getting 
wilfully  out  of  step  they  strained  away  from  each  other 
like  fractious  colts,  until  Muriel  was  at  her  wits'  end  for 
a  way  to  manage  them.  At  last  there  was  nothing  for  it 
but  to  take  them  singly,  which  she  tried. 

Near  the  house  stood  a  grove  of  pine-trees,  their 
lower  boughs  lopped  off  to  the  height  of  a  room.  The 
grove  was  carpeted  with  the  trees'  aromatic  needles  and 

[86] 


BARRY    GORDON 

roofed  by  the  branches  patched  with  sky.  On  warm 
nights  this  was  their  favourite  haunt. 

One  evening  Muriel  was  lying  in  the  hammock,  idly 
gazing  up  between  two  pines  whose  peaks,  like  tall, 
black  spires,  pierced  the  heavens.  For  a  long  time  she 
had  not  spoken,  but  when  at  last  she  did  speak  it  was 
like  the  kindling  of  a  little  light  in  the  dark  grove. 

"  What  stars !  "  she  mused.  "  What  stars !  They  are 
hanging  on  the  pines  just  like  candles  on  a  Christmas- 
tree." 

Tom,  starting  up,  was  plainly  baffled. 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  mean,"  said  he.  "  They're  so 
far  away." 

Muriel  smiled  dreamily. 

"  No,  they're  not.  We  could  shake  them  off  the  tree 
like  fruit,  and  piok  them  up  and  eat  them.  How  do  you 
think  they'd  taste?" 

"  Sour,"  gloomily  replied  Barry,  whose  stars  were 
still  unripe. 

"  No,"  said  Muriel,  "  sweet;  wouldn't  they,  Tom?  " 

Tom's  brows  were  puckered. 

"  What  are  you  both  driving  at  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  responded  idly.  "  What  do  you 
think  they  seem  like — guardian  spirits  ?  " 

Tom  glanced  up  for  a  trial  flight. 

"  More  like — like  diamonds,"  he  concluded  helplessly, 
with  dragging  wings. 

[87] 


BARRY  GORDON 

"  Oh,  no ;  did  you  ever  see  diamonds  look  at 
you?" 

Drawing  closer  to  her,  Tom  crooked  his  neck  to  gaze 
at  them  from  her  view-point.  His  attitude  was  so  full  of 
awkward  eagerness  to  understand  her  whimsical  fancy 
that  Muriel  laughed  at  him. 

Tom  rose  and  withdrew  to  a  distance,  much  hurt. 

Then,  for  the  first  time  since  the  beginning  of  this 
star-gazing,  Barry  made  a  show  of  studying  the 
heavens. 

"  I  know  what  they're  like,"  he  said,  "  just  because 
sometimes  they  do  seem  to  look  at  me." 

"  What  are  they  like  ?  "  asked  Muriel  with  hushed 
daring. 

"  Eyes,"  he  declared  in  a  voice  tremendously  im- 
personal. 

"  Of  course — eyes,"  she  replied  lightly.  "  Look  up 
there.  Do  you  see  those  two  close  together?  " 

He  had  moved  his  chair  nearer  to  the  hammock,  and 
was  gazing  down  at  her. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  almost  inaudibly.  "  I  see  them." 

Her  lashes  fluttered,  and  she  set  the  hammock  swing- 
ing gently. 

"  Oh,  Muriel " 

"Well?" 

"  Won't  you  be  kinder  to  me?  " 

"  Yes,  Barry,  if  you'll  be  good." 
[88] 


BARRY  GORDON 

"  If  you  were  kind,  Muriel,  I  couldn't  help  being 
good." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  that,"  said  Muriel,  still  swinging. 
"  I  mean  you  must  be  less  " — her  voice  was  very  low — 
"  less  frightening.  To  tell  the  truth,"  she  added  quickly, 
"  I  think  you're  a  spoiled  boy." 

"  If  I  am,  it  isn't  you  who've  spoiled  me.  Besides,  I'm 
not  a  boy." 

"  Oh,  aren't  you?  "  This  with  a  note  of  supreme  in- 
difference that  exasperated  him,  as  she  meant  it 
should. 

Before  he  knew  it  he  had  grasped  the  edge  of  the 
hammock  to  stop  her  airy  swinging. 

"  No,  Muriel,  I'm  not.  You  don't  know  all  I've  been 
through.  And,  Muriel,  you  don't  know  how  desperately 
I  long " 

What  he  longed  for,  he  had  no  chance  to  name.  As  it 
came  to  the  tip  of  his  tongue  she  tried  to  swing,  but  he 
gripped  the  hammock,  holding  it  motionless,  and  this 
so  angered  her  that  she  jumped  up  and  flitted  past  him, 
calling  to  Tom: 

"  Tom,  I  can  name  more  stars  than  you  can  !  " 

Tom  was  instantly  hers  again.  He  saw  she  was  making 
for  the  wide  lawn,  and  jumped  hastily  to  his  cue. 

"  I'll  bet  you  can't !  "  he  exclaimed,  his  voice  respon- 
sively  eager;  and  together  they  strolled  out  into  the 
evening. 

[89] 


BARRY    GORDON 

As  the  two  drifted  away  from  him,  Barry  rose  and 
went  heartsick  to  bed. 

After  that  there  was  a  change.  Barry,  unselfish,  sen- 
sitive, and  passionately  considerate  of  those  dear  to  him, 
began  to  efface  himself  for  her  sake  and  Tom's.  She  was 
happier  alone  with  Tom,  he  felt,  and  Tom  alone  with 
her.  Down  deep  he  loved  Tom  with  an  elder  brother's 
love,  and  as  for  Muriel — already  her  happiness  was  his 
first  law. 

Then,  to  his  surprise,  she  suddenly  seemed  to  like  him 
better  than  before;  seemed  even  to  take  pleasure  in  his 
companionship.  When  he  wandered  off  by  himself  into 
the  woods,  she  sometimes  sent  Tom  to  search  for  him. 
Next  she  and  Tom  came  together;  and  finally  one  day 
she  came  alone,  and  when  she  found  him  laughed  at 
him,  calling  him  an  owl,  an  old  hermit. 

Then  again,  just  when  she  seemed  to  feel  fonder  of 
him,  and  he  took  heart  and  showed  his  feelings,  she  be- 
came as  indifferent  as  before. 

And  so  it  went.  Though  with  Tom  she  was  always 
equable  and  grew  constantly  more  dependent  upon  his 
staunch  good  spirits,  with  the  impetuous  Barry  her 
moods  were  so  variable  that  in  the  end  he  was  like  a 
flame  played  on  by  all  the  winds  of  heaven. 

He  was  not  blind.  He  saw  that  she  had  vanity  and 
inwardly  delighted  in  his  worship.  He  saw  that  she  was 

[90] 


BARRY  GORDON 

nervously  sensitive  and  timid,  although  when  the  case 
demanded  she  came  to  the  scratch  with  a  pluck  which 
made  him  feel  a  coward  by  comparison.  He  saw,  too,  that 
she  was  not  always  pretty,  and  he  wondered  why  her 
magic  worked — why  he  was  always,  always  irresistibly 
drawn  close  to  her.  At  times  she  was  without  a  ray  of 
beauty.  When  she  was  tired  or  the  day  very  dull,  or 
some  village  caller  bored  her  with  stupid  gossip,  Muriel 
looked  almost  plain.  And  yet  this  very  changeableness, 
even  this  fleeting  plainness,  somehow  fascinated  his  soul 
more  than  her  most  radiant  moments. 

Muriel,  however,  did  not  consciously  play  with  him. 
Her  nature  played  with  him.  She  always  treated  him  on 
the  impulse  of  the  moment,  as  her  nature  prompted.  At 
least  she  thought  so,  and  she  was  not  without  a  certain 
autocratic  belief  Jn  the  divine  right  of  Muriel.  The 
things  she  said  and  did  she  thought  she  said  and  did 
because  she  was  Muriel  Beekman,  not  because  she  was 
merely  a  girl  blossoming  into  womanhood,  and  still  less 
because  he  was  Barry  Gordon.  She  was  the  individual, 
he  merely  man  in  the  making — at  first.  But  there  came 
times  when  this  relationship  seemed  to  be  reversed  and 
she  felt  merely  girlish,  while  he  seemed  staggeringly  in- 
dividual— the  most  compelling  personality  in  the  world, 
not  even  excepting  herself. 

At  these  moments  she  treated  him  outrageously,  and 
knew  it  and  was  not  sorry.  But  Barry  was,  and  some- 

[91] 


BARRY  GORDON 

times  almost  hated  her  for  the  wounds  she  dealt  him. 
He  suffered  not  only  from  her  preference  for  Tom  and 
reliance  on  Tom's  quieter  devotion,  but  because  she  was 
so  sufficient  unto  herself.  Although  at  times  companion- 
able, there  were  other  times  when  she  would  slip  away 
from  both  of  them  and  go  to  walk  alone,  entirely  in- 
dependent of  the  world  in  general  and  of  him  in  par- 
ticular. In  these  moods  she  was  perfectly  happy  in  her 
own  society,  and  he  began  to  be  jealous  of  her  thoughts 
—her  inner  life. 

Even  when  with  him  she  was  often  detached  and  im- 
personal, far  more  interested  in  little  abstract  questions 
than  in  him.  The  discussion  of  these  matters  began 
to  form  his  philosophy  and  develop  his  imagination ; 
but  he  was  not  conscious  of  this  and  kept  trying  to 
sound  the  personal  note,  no  matter  how  far-fetched  it 
seemed. 

One  evening — their  last  at  the  old  place  that  summer 
— she  shyly  unfolded  to  him  some  of  her  quaint  imagin- 
ings. This  showed,  although  neither  realised  it,  how  in- 
timately she  included  him  in  her  inner  life — her  natural 
reserve  was  so  intense.  Never  before  had  she  shared  with 
any  one  her  sweet,  foolish,  girlish  philosophising.  But 
on  this  last  night  her  nature  partly  opened  to  him,  and, 
though  their  talk  was  too  vague  and  youthfully  evan- 
escent to  be  recorded  in  cold  print,  something  of  its 
shimmer  may  be  caught  at  random. 

[92] 


BARRY  GORDON 

She  indulged  in  all  manner  of  preposterous  fancies 
— situations  fraught  with  perplexity  and  pain.  Life  with 
its  sorrows  was  as  yet  a  mere  figment  of  her  imagina- 
tion. Little  could  she  foresee  the  actual  ordeals  hidden 
deep  in  her  future.  Yet  her  problems  seemed  real.  Deeply 
troubled,  she  told  him  she  feared  that,  if  she  had  been 
an  early  Christian,  she  would  never  have  had  courage  to 
die  a  martyr  to  the  faith.  She  confessed  that  this  ap- 
palling question  often  worried  her  at  night. 

Barry  knew  she  was  yielding  him  a  glimpse  of  her 
secret  heart ;  and  this  rare  moment,  which  to  Tom  would 
have  been  incomprehensible  and  to  older  people  amusing, 
was  to  him  sacred.  Dear  wonderful  Muriel!  What  could 
he  say  ?  It  seemed  useless  to  try  to  reassure  her,  she  took 
this  martyr  question  so  seriously.  He  said,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  that  he  did  not  believe  the  occasion  would  ever 
have  arisen.  They  would  never  have  persecuted  her.  She 
would  merely  have  looked  at  them  and  they  would  have 
all  turned  Christian — even  Nero. 

She  said  he  evidently  didn't  know  Nero.  He  admitted 
as  much,  but  ardently  observed  that  he  knew  Muriel 
Beekman. 

This  she  questioned,  pointing  out  how  impossible  it 
was  since  she  did  not  know  herself.  Then  she  returned 
to  her  imaginary  tests  of  character,  little  dreaming  of 
the  actual  tests  to  come.  Take  the  French  Revolution, 
for  example.  Would  she  have  died,  she  wondered,  with 

[93] 


BARRY  GORDON 

the  nonchalant  air  of  her  fellow  aristocrats?  On  the 
whole,  she  considered  the  Paris  mob  and  guillotine  more 
horrible  than  the  Roman  arena.  Could  he  think  of  any 
worse  fate? 

Barry  told  her  she  was  the  most  extraordinary  girl  he 
had  ever  known.  He  said  yes,  he  could  imagine  a  fate  far 
crueler — and  he  frowned  at  her  significantly. 

Thereupon  she  shied  off  to  a  species  of  spiritual  tor- 
ment. With  a  genuinely  deep,  even  troubled  feeling 
peculiar  to  her  in  all  her  imaginings,  she  asked  wist- 
fully: 

"  Suppose  there  are  two  men  and  each  loves  the  same 
girl  with  all  his  soul,  and  the  girl  loves  one  of  the  men 
with  all  hers,  then  if  love  is  eternal  and  life  in  heaven 
perfectly  happy,  how  can  the  man  the  girl  doesn't  love 
— ever  get  there?  " 

She  put  this  tragic  problem  quite  impersonally ;  but 
Barry  replied  that  he  wished  she  wouldn't  suggest  such 
an  awful  thing,  because  he  himself  might  some  day  be 
the  man  who 

Then  he  looked  at  her  so  sorrowfully  that  she  darted 
away  to  another  favourite  question — a  question  that 
evidently  bothered  her.  She  wanted  to  know  if  he 
thought  a  man  who  had  once  been  wicked  could  ever  be 
better  than  a  man  who  had  always  been  good?  Whether 
certain  of  the  Saints,  of  whom  she  had  hazy  notions  that 
somehow  they  hadn't  been  exemplary  in  youth,  were 

[9*3 


BARRY    GORDON 

better  than  untempted  angels?  Take,  for  instance,  St. 
Augustine  and  Gabriel. 

To  this  ethical  poser  Barry,  remembering  his  father's 
discourse,  pointedly  answered  that  he  supposed  it  de- 
pended entirely  on  the  girl.  And  he  leaned  toward  her 
so  fervently,  so  beseechingly,  that  she  skimmed  off  into 
some  vague  observation  about  feeling  terribly  guilty 
when  she  thought  to  herself  if  she  had  been  a  man  in- 
stead of  a  woman  what  a  bad  man  she  might  have  been ! 
Pie  responded  to  this  that  if  she  had  been  a  man,  he, 
Barry,  would  have  committed  suicide. 

Then  he  grew  gloomy,  depressed  by  thoughts  of  the 
long  months  of  separation  already  at  hand. 

"  Muriel,"  he  began,  "  to  go  back  to  love " 

"  Don't  let's,"  said  Muriel. 

"  To  go  back  to  love,"  he  persisted,  "  what  do  you 
think  about  it?  " 

Muriel  rose  and  wandered  away  from  him  singing  to 
herself  a  little  song  in  a  haunting  way,  half  airy,  half 
sad: 

"How  do  I  know  what  love  may  be? 

Heigh-ho! 
Saw  you  a  fire-fly  in  the  dark? 

Saw  you  a  moonbeam  on  the  sea? 
Heard  you  the  singing  of  a  lark? 
No  less  or  more  is  love  to  me. 
Heigh-ho!" 

[95] 


BOOK    III 
THE  FALL 


CHAPTER  I 

COLLEGE  IN  A  NUTSHELL.  BARRY  GROWS  RESTLESS.  LOVE 

AND  THE  WANDERLUST.  HE  OBEYS  HEAVEN  BUT  NOT 

THE  FACULTY  AND  THERE'S  THE  DEVIL  TO  PAY 

THE  years  immediately  following  that  first  sum- 
mer passed  like  a  light  sleep,  and  the  morning 
of  life  broadened. 

At  college,  Tom,  inspired  by  Mr.  Beekman,  had  taken 
a  course  in  civil  engineering.  The  future  lay  bright 
before  him.  He  was  to  serve  his  apprenticeship  in 
the  West,  on  one  of  Mr.  Beekman's  roads.  Later, 
if  he  proved  competent,  and  if  certain  plans  ma- 
tured, there  might  be  an  excellent  opportunity  for 
him  abroad.  A  syndicate  of  French  and  American 
capitalists,  headed  by  Mr.  Beekman,  hoped  to  ob- 
tain certain  large  concessions  in  Africa,  and  Tom 
was  to  take  part  in  the  surveys  and  construction- 
work. 

"  When  a  railroad  first  goes  to  a  place,"  Mr.  Beek- 
man had  said  to  him,  "  go  there  ahead  of  it,  and  if  you're 
awake  your  fortune's  made." 

Barry's  career  at  college  seemed  less  promising.  He 
made  a  name  in  athletics,  but  in  studies,  as  he  himself 

[99] 


BARRY  GORDON 

put  it,  he  only  slid  through.  Yet  the  classical  course  he 
took  was  not  without  results.  Though  it  did  not  appear 
to  prepare  him  for  any  definite  pursuit,  it  vastly 
broadened  his  outlook  on  life. 

Under  the  influence  of  all  he  read,  he  began  to  grow 
restless.  The  wandering  and  adventurous  spirit  of  his 
ancestors  slowly  but  surely  awoke  in  him,  and  he  longed 
to  see  the  world.  Often  he  would  surround  himself  with 
books  of  travel  and  maps,  ancient  and  modern,  and  go 
roaming  in  fancy  over  all  the  earth. 

His  enthusiasm  was  so  warm  and  contagious  that 
even  Jim  Hicks,  the  least  imaginative  of  his  classmates, 
caught  the  fever.  Jim's  father  was  a  congressman,  and 
might  be  able  to  get  him  a  post  at  some  consulate  or 
embassy. 

"  Barry,  you're  right,"  said  Hicks  one  night,  fired  by 
the  wanderlust.  "  No  coop  of  an  office  here  will  do ! " 

Barry  nodded. 

"  Hum-drum  money-getting,"  he  said,  "  is  all  rot.  If 
you've  got  to  add  two  and  two  all  your  life,  what's  the 
use  of  being  born?  I'd  rather  subtract  one,"  he  added 
whimsically. 

They  sat  and  smoked  their  pipes  with  slow,  rumi- 
native puffs.  At  last  Hicks  said : 

"  By  thunder,  Barry,  I  wish  we  could  cut  loose  to- 
gether!" 

Barry  nodded.  He  was  too  kind-hearted  to  suggest 
[100] 


BARRY    GORDON 

that  all  his  hopes  centred  on  a  travelling  companion 
even  more  desirable  than  Hicks. 

In  every  imagined  journey  he  included  Muriel.  When 
the  time  came — if  by  any  chance  she  should  choose  him 
instead  of  Tom  or  some  one  else — he  would  take  her  far 
away  with  him  to  all  the  Old-World  cities  he  had 
dreamed  of.  He  and  she  would  go  down  to  tideless  seas 
and  classic  shores.  They  would  wander  into  distances  as 
yet  unmarred  by  railroads. 

He  had  built  the  dream  so  graphically  that  it  almost 
seemed  reality.  Yet  of  late  his  visits  to  the  Beekmans* 
winter  home  in  New  York  had  been  less  and  less  fre- 
quent. He  believed  Muriel  preferred  his  brother.  Tom's 
unimportunate  devotion  seemed  more  acceptable  to  her. 
She  was  not  so  much  disturbed  by  it.  She  was  at  an  age 
that  demanded  enjoyment  as  its  right.  Her  mother  had 
returned  from  abroad,  and  Muriel  was  soon  to  come  out 
into  society.  This  kept  her  busy  with  milliners  and 
dressmakers,  wholly  engrossed  in  a  perfectly  natural 
and  healthy  interest  in  the  coming  gaieties  of  her  first 
season. 

So  Barry's  love  had  little  to  feed  on — save  the  dream. 
Yet  Muriel  unconsciously  influenced  him  in  many  ways. 
His  maturing  love  for  her  inspired  not  only  dreams,  but 
a  very  practical  code  of  living.  And  the  memory  of  his 
father's  confession  and  death  gave  him  strength  to  live 
up  to  this  code  rigidly. 

[101] 


BARRY  GORDON 

That  memory  was  no  longer  bitter  and  distracting. 
As  time  went  on  it  fell  into  true  perspective,  and  he 
knew  in  his  heart  that  his  father  had  done  him  as  good 
a  turn  as  ever  a  father  did  a  son. 

They  say  nearly  every  one  in  college  loved  Barry 
Gordon — a  fellow  in  mind  and  spirit  older  than  most, 
but  in  buoyancy,  dash,  and  innocent  recklessness  as 
young  as  any.  He  had  many  moods,  and  was  sometimes 
very  reserved ;  but  when  after  a  game  or  race,  his  youth 
surged  to  the  surface,  they  knew  he  did  not  keep 
straight  merely  because  he  was  tame  by  nature.  And 
so  they  forgave  him  his  virtue,  and  though  he  was 
steady  he  was  popular. 

But  this  code  of  his  was  limited  more  or  less  to  ques- 
tions of  morals.  He  kept  the  Ten  Commandments,  and 
several  others  into  the  bargain,  but  there  were  some 
commandments  he  did  not  keep.  He  had  an  impetuous 
disregard  for  the  mandates  of  the  faculty.  As  Hicks  put 
it,  a  man  like  Barry  had  to  let  off  steam  somehow. 

In  his  final  year  a  breach  of  the  lesser  law  got  him 
into  trouble,  and  a  ready  observance  of  the  higher  law 
left  him  there. 

Meade,  after  repeated  attempts,  had  at  last  entered 
college.  Meade  was  a  cad  and  a  ready  mark  for  energetic 
Sophomores.  There  were  stories  of  certain  shady  prac- 
tices. He  had  welched  on  a  bet  and  dealt  queerly  in  a 
game  of  poker. 

[102] 


BARRY  GORDON 

One  night  there  came  a  secret  but  hot  fracas.  The 
Freshman  class  was  the  target  of  the  Sophomore  class, 
and  Meade,  so  to  speak,  the  bull's-eye.  To  the  aid  of  the 
Freshmen  came  many  Juniors,  to  the  aid  of  the  Sopho- 
mores many  Seniors — among  them  Hicks  and  Barry. 

The  next  day  Meade  was  a  sorry  sight — not  seriously 
hurt  but  soundly  punished.  The  thing  caused  a  great 
commotion.  The  president  was  up  in  arms.  He  had  but 
just  put  a  ban  on  hazing.  Who  had  done  this  outrageous 
thing?  Who  were  the  ringleaders? 

Meade  said  he  was  not  sure,  and  that  was  true.  It  had 
been  too  dark,  the  affair  too  whirling  and  quick.  He 
said  he  had  recognised  no  one  except  a  Senior  named 
Barry  Gordon,  and  that  was  not  true;  but  the  random 
shot  hit  the  mark. 

Barry  was  summoned  at  once  before  the  president  and 
several  members  of  the  faculty. 

Had  he  been  in  the  row  of  the  night  before? 

Yes,  more  or  less. 

Who  else  in  his  class? 

That  was  telling. 

Yes,  and  he  must  tell. 

Not  by  a  long  sight !  What  did  they  take  him  for  ? 

They  took  him  for  a  student  subject  to  the  rules  of 
the  college  and  the  expedient  dictates  of  the  moment. 
The  president  was  determined  to  stamp  out  hazing.  If 
Mr.  Gordon  did  not  name  his  fellow-hazers,  he  would 

[103] 


BARRY  GORDON 

lose  his  degree;  he  would  be  expelled.  That  would  also 
mean  his  exclusion  from  other  colleges. 

They  gave  him  his  choice  and  he  took  it  without 
question. 

Very  well,  then,  he  would  lose  his  degree  and  be  ex- 
pelled and  black-listed. 

That  morning  Barry  left  college,  never  to  return. 


[104] 


CHAPTER    II 

A   DIVORCEE   DRESSES  A  DEBUTANTE 

SEVERAL  intimate  friends  had  come  to  see  Muriel 
dressed  for  her  debut.  First  at  one  mirror,  then 
at  another,  in  her  white  bedroom,  she  watched 
the  process  with  dreamy  interest,  while  her  French  maid 
hooked,  pinned,  and  deftly  pecked  at  her  and  the  critics 
made  feverish  suggestions. 

Two  of  these  ladies-in-waiting  were  the  Morrison 
twins — a  pair  of  fair-haired  worshippers  at  Muriel's 
shrine.  Drooping  girls,  rather  anaemic,  and  quietly 
adoring,  they  looked  like  a  couple  of  pre-Raphaelite 
angels,  and  few  save  Muriel  could  tell  them  apart. 

Another  of  Muriel's  attendants  was  Kitty  Van  Ness, 
a  cousin,  who  from  the  first  had  assumed  undisputed 
command.  Between  her  and  the  rest  lay  the  immeasur- 
able years  of  wisdom-getting  that  stretch  between  the 
late  teens  and  the  early  twenties.  Practice  had  made  her 
perfect  at  the  feminine  game.  Experience — bitter  ex- 
perience— had  taught  her  many  things.  Marriage  and 
divorce  had  doubled  for  her  the  ordinary  schooling  of 
a  young  woman.  And  yet  nothing  really  objectionable 
in  the  way  of  scandal  clung  to  her.  She  had  merely  been 

[105] 


BARRY  GORDON 

unlucky  in  the  choosing  of  a  husband — too  buoyantly 
sanguine  of  the  male  sex.  So  she  held  up  her  head  and 
laughed  at  life  and,  backed  by  a  free  conscience,  made 
herself  out  far  worse  than  she  was — merely  to  appall  the 
gossips. 

Her  twenty-five  years  fitted  her  as  becomingly  as  her 
clothes — without  the  trace  of  an  undesirable  line  or  a 
worn  look.  It  was,  in  fact,  as  if  she  had  just  put  on  the 
years  like  her  dress,  and,  by  the  innate  art  that  goes 
with  a  dashing  carriage,  had  hidden  the  seamy  places 
under  an  air  as  bright  as  her  ribbons. 

This  air  was  in  full  play  while  Kitty  directed  the 
dressing  of  Muriel.  It  was  nice,  for  once,  to  have  a 
chance  to  be  enthusiastic  and  see  taste  show.  She  would 
present  to  society  a  prize  bud,  a  perfect  debutante. 

No  jealousy  clouded  this  ambition.  She  loved  Muriel 
— and  a  bud's  a  bud  but  once.  Then  let  her  have  her 
little  radiant  day!  Only  the  meanest  of  woman-kind 
would  deny  it  to  her. 

Moreover,  Kitty  was  a  past  master  at  the  art  of  dress- 
ing, and  the  artist  at  the  moment  transcended  the 
woman  in  her.  She  was  working  at  the  thing  she  loved 
best — a  serious,  nerve-racking  business. 

Her  chatter  rippled  incessantly. 

"  Suzette,  the  scissors  !  Here !  Let  me  do  that !  You're 
too  French.  You  Parisians  have  none  of  the  bud  in- 
stinct." Suzette  lifted  her  eyebrows  cynically,  shrugged, 

[106] 


BARRY  GORDON 

and  handed  over  the  scissors.  "  You  will  suggest 
coquetry,"  said  Kitty,  snipping  the  air  with  her  scis- 
sors preparatory  to  attacking  Muriel.  "  Coquetry  comes 
later.  To-day — dreams,  an  atmosphere  of  dreams — and 
Mile.  Muriel  stepping  out  of  them  into  the  world.  Here, 
throw  these  away !  " 

She  ripped  off  a  tiny  butterfly  bow  from  each  of 
Muriel's  shoulders  and  tossed  them  aside  impatiently. 

"  They're  too  piquant,"  she  declared.  "  You  have 
enough  piquancy,  Muriel,  without  them.  That's  not  the 
key-note  of  to-day.  The  key-note  is  vague  simplicity. 
The  dreams  are  still  clinging  to  you,  Muriel.  Here, 
Suzette,  help  me  with  this  gauze." 

Kitty  kneeled  and  smoothed  down  and  stroked  into 
place  the  filmy  material  that  lay  like  a  white  mist  over 
the  skirt.  As  she  rose  she  stepped  back  and  viewed  the 
picture.  Her  eyes  lighted  up  and  she  smiled. 

"  Halloa,  Psyche !  "  she  said. 

Muriel  blushed. 

"  Psyche  to  the  life,"  observed  Kitty.  "  That's  what 
you  are — Psyche  with  clothes  on,  the  modern  inter- 
pretation. Given  a  Cupid,  he  would  fly  to  you  through 
the  air  and  bend  over  you,  and — well,  after  that,"  she 
said,  "  you  would  no  longer  be  Psyche.  That's  the 
modern  interpretation." 

Muriel  seemed  preoccupied,  as  if  by  something  re- 
mote. 

[107] 


BARRY    GORDON 

"  Then  you  think  I'll  do  ?  "  she  asked,  as  unaffectedly 
as  if  speaking  of  another  person. 

The  Morrison  twins  stood  side  by  side  devouring  her 
with  their  eyes. 

"  Muriel,  you're  a  love !  "  murmured  one. 

"  You're  a  dream !  "  murmured  the  other. 

Kitty  pursed  her  lips  and  arched  her  brows.  She  had 
a  way  of  salting  insipid  compliments. 

"  And  yet,"  said  she,  "  yesterday  you  were  quite  un- 
noticeable,  and  to-morrow  you  may  be  even  plain.  I 
never  saw  such  variableness  in  all  my  life." 

Muriel  laughed  unconcernedly  and  taking  up  a  hand- 
mirror  gazed  at  her  back  in  the  cheval  glass. 

"  Suzette,"  she  said,  "  I'm  not  all  hooked." 

Her  maid,  hastening  behind  her,  fell  to  completing  the 
intricate  puzzle  of  hooks  and  eyes. 

At  this  moment  in  came  Muriel's  mother,  a  tall,  high- 
bred woman,  angular  and  sharp-featured.  On  the  crown 
of  her  head  Mrs.  Beekman's  silvery  hair  was  reared  in  a 
majestic  pile;  but  despite  the  glacial  severity  of  this 
coiffure,  and  the  lines  of  care  on  the  brow  beneath  it, 
her  skin  was  still  soft,  and  her  thin,  hard  lips  suggested 
the  merest  ghost  of  a  Cupid's  bow. 

Kitty,  who  until  now  had  not  seen  Mrs.  Beekman 
since  that  wandering  lady's  long  absence,  went  non- 
chalantly to  her  and  welcomed  her  back  from  Europe. 

Mrs.  Beekman  responded  with  a  polite  kiss. 
[108] 


BARRY  GORDON 

Kitty  stood  off  and  surveyed  her  admiringly. 

"  Perfect ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  always  think  of  you 
in  brocade,  and  maroon  is  certainly  your  colour." 

Mrs.  Beekman  began  to  melt,  but  at  the  sight  of  Su- 
zette's  pained  puzzling  with  Muriel's  dress,  she  frowned. 

"  Muriel,"  said  she,  "  I  wish  you  would  wear  clothes 
made  according  to  more  advanced  standards.  Your 
mother,  Muriel,  dresses  herself  entirely.  My  hooks, 
you  see,  are  in  front." 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  said  Kitty,  with  the  faintest  lift  of  her 
eye-brows. 

"  After  this,  Muriel,  I  want  your  gowns  cut  like  my 
own." 

"  But,  my  dear  Mrs.  Beekman,"  protested  Kitty, 
"  the  snugness  of  the  fit,  you  know — the  bust — the 
curves ; 

She  tightened  in  her  figure  with  her  hands  at  the 
waist  to  show  how  much  better  the  front  of  a  woman 
appears  with  the  line  of  hooks  relegated  to  the  spinal 
column. 

"  Immodest !  "  declared  Mrs.  Beekman.  "  A  young 
girl  like  Muriel  should  have  no  curves,  and  yours,  so  to 
speak,  should  be  expurgated." 

Kitty  laughed,  blushed,  and  with  another  expressive 
shrug  turned  her  back  on  the  family  censor.  Drifting  to 
the  window,  she  looked  out  across  Fifth  Avenue  and 
Central  Park. 

[109] 


BARRY  GORDON 

It  was  an  afternoon  late  in  November,  and  the  trees 
had  already  lost  their  leaves.  The  fretwork  of  the 
branches  looked  like  the  scribbling  of  a  giant  pencil. 
Just  beyond  the  wall  was  a  pond  where  in  summer 
children  sailed  toy  boats.  To-day  the  water  was  chill 
and  gray. 

Kitty  glanced  up  at  the  sky. 

"  Too  bad,"  she  said.  "  It's  clouding  over." 

As  she  lowered  her  glance  and  looked  down  the 
avenue,  she  suddenly  brightened.  Barry  and  Tom  were 
approaching  the  house. 

She  turned  to  Muriel. 

"  Here  come  the  rivals,"  she  said;  and  Muriel  joined 
her  at  the  window. 

"  Tom's  a  dear,"  declared  Kitty,  looking  down  fondly 
at  her  favourite.  "  He  walks  like  a  soldier  on  the  march." 

"  And  Barry,"  said  Muriel,  "  like  a  soldier  on  a 
holiday." 

"  Yes ;  but  they  both  look  pretty  serious,"  Kitty  ob- 
served with  meaning.  "  They  have  a  determined  air. 
Muriel,  which  is  it  to  be?  " 

Muriel,  without  answering,  gazed  off  wistfully  over 
the  park  through  the  complex  tracery  of  branches.  Her 
mother  uttered  an  exclamation  of  annoyance. 

"  Kitty,"  she  said,  "  please  don't  put  silly  ideas  into 
my  daughter's  head !  " 

Muriel,  smiling,  turned  from  the  window. 
[110] 


BARRY    GORDON 

"  I  wish  I  could  wake  up !  "  she  mused  aloud.  "  I  know 
just  what  a  caterpillar  feels  like  when  it  is  turning  into 
a  butterfly." 

Then  the  front-door  bell  rang,  and  they  saw  her  flush 
and  quiver  like  a  spray  of  sweet-peas  in  a  breath  of  air. 
Turning  she  moved  slowly  from  the  room,  with  her  eyes 
down. 


[Ill] 


CHAPTER    III 

THE    DUEL    OF    THE    FLOWERS.        MURIEL'S    SONG    RE- 
ECHOES,   AND    BARRY    TEARS    ASIDE    A    VEIL 

BELOW,  on  the  ground  floor,  the  large  ballroom 
had  been  made  ready  for  the  reception.  From 
their  ormolu  sconces  scores  of  electric  candles, 
backed  by  small  mirrors  and  softly  shaded,  diffused  a 
faint  radiance  over  the  white  and  gold  wood-work  and 
old  rose  damask  of  the  walls.  At  the  centre  hung  an  im- 
mense cluster  of  starry  bulbs  and  crystal  prisms,  spread- 
ing abroad  a  sort  of  magical  effulgence  like  icicles  in 
moonlight.  Against  the  wall,  at  the  edge  of  this  en- 
chanted circle  a  gilt-framed  French  mirror,  festooned 
with  roses  and  flanked  with  palms,  reflected  the  light 
and  the  soft  colouring  as  if  in  deep  vistas  through 
which  one  might  drift  endlessly. 

As  Muriel  entered  the  room  from  the  main  doorway 
opposite  this  great  looking-glass,  she  saw  coming  to- 
ward her  out  of  the  long  vistas  a  figure  which,  though 
it  was  herself  and  strikingly  vivid,  seemed  so  unfamiliar 
that  she  stopped  a  minute  to  consider  it. 

Within  an  hour  she  would  be  standing  there,  quailing 
under  the  gaze,  as  it  seemed,  of  the  whole  world. 

[112] 


BARRY  GORDON 

For  a  moment  she  had  impulses  positively  cloistral. 
Girl-like,  she  had  before  this  passed  through  the  nun- 
phase  of  feminine  youth ;  and  now  she  reverted  to  it.  To 
abjure  the  world  and  all  the  vanities  thereof — man  and 
his  unknown  powers;  to  yield  one's  self  to  spiritual 
things — the  higher  life — a  vague  transcendental  seclu- 
sion !  Why  all  this  dressing  up,  this  show,  this  palatial 
room,  and  the  crowd  that  would  fill  it?  Why  this  almost 
public  debut  ?  She  had  a  wistful  little  longing  for  a  nook 
she  knew  near  a  stream  in  the  woods  on  the  old 
Massachusetts  farm. 

She  gazed  into  the  mirror  as  if  into  dim  distances 
through  which  her  image  floated  impalpably.  It  was  as 
though  the  future  lay  hid  there — a  mystery  that  lured 
her.  But  gradually  she  became  conscious  of  a  second 
image  and  then  of  a  third,  both  of  which  drew  near  to 
her  out  of  the  far  vistas  of  the  looking-glass. 

Turning  she  saw  Barry  and  Tom  waiting,  as  if  in 
touch  with  the  spell. 

Immediately  the  mystical  mood  left  her.  She  threw 
off  the  imaginary  grim  garb  of  the  convent,  and  became 
in  a  moment  as  full  of  life  as  a  bud  bursting  into  flower. 

As  she  greeted  them,  Tom's  honest  face  fairly  beamed 
with  admiration.  She  heard  him  exclaim  in  a  bluntly 
complimentary  way  that  delighted  her. 

But  Barry,  avoiding  her  eyes,  turned  off  to  the 
window  and  looked  out  dumbly  at  the  distant  park. 

[113] 


BARRY  GORDON 

The  moment  would  have  been  awkward  but  for  an  im- 
mediate interruption. 

The  bell  again  rang,  and  presently  Burridge,  the 
butler,  passed  the  doorway  carrying  two  white  boxes, 
one  very  long,  the  other  square  and  smaller. 

Tom  impetuously  went  out  into  the  hall,  captured  the 
boxes,  and  brought  them  back. 

"  That  Burridge,"  said  he,  "  is  too  high-handed.  He 
was  told  to  bring  these  direct  to  you." 

Muriel's  pulses  quickened.  She  glanced  at  Barry.  He 
was  still  at  the  window,  looking  out  into  the  November 
grayness. 

For  lack  of  a  table  in  the  bare  ballroom,  Tom  crossed 
to  the  grand  piano  in  a  corner,  and  set  down  the  boxes 
on  it.  As  Muriel  joined  him,  he  pulled  off  the  strings. 

She  opened  the  larger  first. 

"  I  hope  you  will  like  them,"  said  Tom  humbly. 

As  she  looked  into  the  box  her  eyes  shone.  It  was  filled 
with  American  Beauty  roses — bursting  buds  and  regal, 
full-blown  flowers — the  conventional  big  gift  of  a  con- 
ventional big  boy.  She  regarded  them  with  sparkling 
admiration. 

"  Tom,"  she  said,  "  you're  a  dear !  What  wonderful 
roses !  They  are  almost  as  tall  as  I  am." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Tom,  "  they  ought  to  be  arranged 
with  all  the  rest ;  but,  Muriel  " — his  voice  fell  lower — 
"  won't  you  wear  one  or  two  ?  " 


BARRY  GORDON 

She  was  still  looking  at  the  roses. 

"  It  seems  too  bad,"  she  said  tactfully,  "  to  cut  the 
stems." 

With  eager  haste,  Tom  took  a  bud  from  the  box  and 
broke  the  stem  off  short.  Then  he  held  the  bud  out  to 
her,  ready  and  wearable. 

But  she  was  looking  at  Barry's  back. 

"  Barry,"  she  said  gently,  "  why  are  you  unsociable? 
What's  the  matter?  There's  a  box  of  flowers  here  I 
haven't  opened." 

Barry,  turning  from  the  window,  came  over  to  her. 
Tom,  hurt,  drew  away  a  little  with  his  rose. 

"  Forgive  me !  "  Barry  said ;  then  in  a  tone  for  her 
ears  only :  "  Your  beauty  seemed  so  exquisite  I  could 
hardly  bear  it." 

Muriel  breathed  quicker  and  opened  his  box  of 
flowers. 

They  were  white  violets,  not  in  a  bunch,  but  strewn 
loose  on  a  bed  of  maiden-hair  fern. 

Catching  up  the  box,  Muriel  buried  her  face  in  the 
frail  blooms  and  drank  deep  draughts  of  their  fra- 
grance. When  at  last  she  looked  up  at  Barry  her  face 
was  as  pale  as  the  violets,  and  something  akin  to  their 
delicate  moisture  trembled  in  her  eyes. 

Barry  took  out  a  few  of  the  little  flowers  and  fingered 
them  tentatively.  Then  Tom,  his  honest  soul  troubled, 
came  forward  again  with  his  rose  and  said  quite  openly : 

[115] 


BARRY    GORDON 

"  Muriel,  which  will  you  wear  ?  " 

At  this  moment,  as  luck  would  have  it,  Kitty  Van 
Ness  appeared  in  the  doorway.  Pausing,  she  smiled  at 
the  tableau. 

"  What  a  picture ! "  she  cried  vivaciously.  "  The 
maiden's  choice !  What  symbolism !  A  red,  red  rose  versus 
a  bunch  of  white  violets !  " 

They  looked  at  her  and  laughed  awkwardly,  Muriel 
colouring  to  the  tips  of  her  ears. 

Kitty  came  forward  with  a  manner  more  serious. 

"  Not  the  rose,  Muriel.  The  rose  is  too  vivid.  Not  yet 
the  rose.  To-day  the  ethereal  white  violets." 

"  Why?  "  demanded  Tom,  chagrined. 

"  Come  and  arrange  the  flowers  with  me  and  I'll  tell 
you,"  she  said,  putting  an  arm  affectionately  through 
his.  "  There's  a  vase  in  the  drawing-room." 

Kitty  had  a  way  with  her  that  could  not  be  gainsaid, 
so  Tom  reluctantly  followed  her  with  the  boxes.  In  the 
drawing-room,  while  they  were  arranging  the  flowers, 
he  asked  her  why  his  roses  were  prohibited. 

"  They  are  buds,"  he  said,  "  and  so  is  Muriel  a 
bud." 

"  Obviously,"  she  replied.  "  That's  the  trouble — it  is 
too  obvious.  Besides,  there  are  buds  and  buds.  White 
violets,  dear  Tom,  are  more  truly  bud-like  than  any  big 
rose-bud  can  hope  to  be.  In  the  same  way  I've  seen  many 
a  debutante  a  full  blown  rose,  and  many  a  dear  little 

[116] 


BARRY  GORDON 

old  lady  still  not  unlike  a  bud.  Now,  Tom,  if  you  had 
given  these  American  Beauties  to  a  woman  instead  of  a 
mere  girl "  — instinctively  she  drew  in  her  breath, 
slightly  expanding  her  beautifully  modelled  breast — 
"  well,  Tom,  that  would  have  been  different." 

She  picked  up  a  rose,  fondled  it  in  her  hand,  sighed, 
and  looked  at  him  a  moment  with  true  womanly  tender- 
ness, thinking  him  the  fairest,  most  honest  boy  she  had 
ever  known — a  young  angel  in  a  world  of  old  men. 

"  I  say,  Kitty,"  he  suddenly  exclaimed  enthusias- 
tically, "  won't  you  wear  that  rose?  " 

She  shook  her  head,  laughing. 

"  Tom,  you  are  so  crude !  "  she  said.  "  If  you  had 
only  done  it  better,  you  might  have  fooled  me  into  wear- 
ing it.  But  on  the  whole  I'm  glad  you  didn't.  The  crude 
is  very  refreshing^  Tom.  I've  lived  on  caviare  several 
years,  and  I'm  simply  famished  for  bread !  " 

She  arranged  the  roses  in  a  slender  Venetian  vase. 

"  There,  Tom,"  she  said,  "  we'll  entomb  it — your 
memory  of  her.  Behold  a  love  that  blossomed  into  a  red, 
red  rose,  and  was  entombed  in  a  Venetian  vase !  " 

Tom  disliked  this  funereal  symbolism. 

"  No,"  he  protested  stoutly ;  "  it  is  not  entombed,  and 
never  shall  be !  " 

Muriel  sat  at  the  piano,  the  white  violets  on  her 
breast,  her  fingers  lightly  dreaming  over  the  keys. 

[117] 


BARRY  GORDON 

It  was  the  last  half-hour  of  her  girlhood.  Before  long 
the  crowd  would  begin  to  come. 

Barry  leaned  on  the  piano,  his  eyes  drinking  deep  of 
her  beauty.  She  was  playing  very  low  in  a  minor  key, 
and  the  wistful  music,  stealing  through  him,  reawakened 
memories  of  their  earliest  companionship  in  the  country. 
The  spirit  of  the  woods  was  in  it,  and  of  the  meadows. 
He  seemed  to  hear  the  faint  stir  of  leaves  and  hidden 
streams,  and  the  whisper  of  nature  on  summer  evenings. 

"  Muriel,"  he  said,  "  I  loved  you  that  first  summer, 
and  I  love  you  now." 

She  did  not  look  up.  Gradually  the  music,  though 
even  softer  than  before,  grew  more  coherent,  and  out  of 
the  memory  of  leaves  and  streams  and  summer  evenings 
stole  the  memory  of  a  song.  Though  she  did  not  sing, 
he  seemed  to  hear  her  voice. 

"  How  do  I  know  what  love  may  be  ? 

Heigh-ho! 
Saw  you  a  fire-fly  in  the  dark? 

Saw  you  a  moonbeam  on  the  sea? 
Heard  you  the  singing  of  a  lark? 
No  less  or  more  is  love  to  me. 
Heigh-ho!" 

"  Muriel,"  said  Barry,  "  that  time  is  past.  We  were 
both  children  then,  living  in  a  mist,  but  now  we're  face 
to  face  with  reality." 

[118] 


BARRY  GORDON 

The  music  died.  Muriel  rose  restlessly,  and  together 
they  crossed  the  hall  to  a  conservatory  where  they  had 
often  sat.  There  in  a  deep  alcove,  screened  by  tropical 
plants,  he  poured  out  his  heart  to  her. 

"  Muriel,"  he  repeated,  "  I  loved  you  then  and  I  love 
you  now — and  I  shall  always  love  you !  "  They  were 
standing  close  to  each  other,  Muriel  gazing  into  his 
eyes  at  last  unflinchingly,  he  into  hers  with  strained 
quiet.  "  I  hope  I'm  not  selfish  to  speak  now.  I  hope  it 
won't  spoil  your  pleasure.  There  is  no  reason  it  should. 
You've  always  known  it.  I  couldn't  wait  because  it 
seemed  to  me  that  after  the  crowd  came — somehow  you 
would  be  taken  away  from  me."  His  voice  was  full  of 
restrained  strength  and  the  calm  of  hopes  long  cherished 
against  all  misgivings.  "  Muriel,"  he  suggested,  smil- 
ing, "  let's  go  out  into  life  together ! " 

Slowly  she  shook  her  head. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Barry,  but  it  can't  be.  I  don't  know 
myself  yet.  You  see,  I've  never  lived.  I've  only 
dreamed;  and  the  dreams  have  come  to  mean  so 
much  to  me  that  I'm  half  afraid  to  prove  them." 
Her  lashes  fluttered  and  drooped.  "  I  confess  love 
is  no  longer  a  mere  moonbeam  to  me.  I  wish  it  were ! 
The  trouble  is  that  nowadays  love  seems  everything 
worth  having  in  life."  Again  she  looked  up  at  him, 
but  now  she  had  the  troubled,  wondering  expression  that 
had  so  often  disheartened  him.  "  But  suppose,"  she  said, 

[119] 


BARRY    GORDON 

"  it  passes  me  by  and  I  never  know  it,  never  have  it !  I'm 
sure  I'm  not  in  love  with  you  now — so  what  can  I  say? 
What  can  I  do?" 

She  smiled  helplessly,  and  he  saw  that  she  was  still  a 
child.  He  frowned,  bewildered.  He  was  not  contending 
against  a  mere  rival,  but  against  Muriel  herself — her 
cloistral  youth — her  veil.  To  tear  this  veil  aside,  to  open 
these  closed  petals,  would  seem  a  profanation.  He  felt 
hopeless  and  could  not  answer. 

She  looked  up  at  him  sympathetically. 

"  Don't  think  I  am  silly,  Barry,  or  unnatural.  It's 
just  my  bringing  up,  you  know,  and  my  queer  nature. 
Can't  you  understand?  Don't  you  ever  feel  this  way 
yourself?  " 

Barry  shook  his  head. 

"  No ;  I  have  dreams,  but  they  are  different — they  are 
vivid  day-dreams,  Muriel,  real  as  life.  When  my  father 
died,  the  vague  dreams  you  speak  of  were  brushed  aside. 
I  had  a  sudden  awakening — an  awakening  I  can  never 
tell  you  about.  And  ever  since  then  the  things  I've  been 
sure  of  I've  been  sure  of — and,  Muriel,  my  love  for  you 
is  the  surest  thing  of  all !  " 

His  voice  began  to  vibrate,  her  close  presence  to  tell 
on  him  more  than  ever  before.  His  blood  ran  warmer  and 
warmer,  his  pulses  hammered  in  him.  Her  loveliness  was 
so  pervasive  and  yet  so  intangible,  her  lips  and  eyes  so 
near  to  him  and  so  essential — yet  so  far  away ! 

[120] 


O  Barry!     How  could   you   do    it?     Youve 
killed  me,"  sJie  said 


BARRY  GORDON 

"  I  love  you !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  love  you !  I  know  it 
as  well  as  I  know  I'm  living.  You  can't  realise  how 
I  love  you.  Oh,  if  I  could  only  tell  you !  From  that  first 
moment  when  I  saw  your  face  in  the  crowd  and  won 
that  game  you  have  inspired  me.  My  family,  Muriel, 
has  always  been  unrestrained  and  self-indulgent,  but 
for  your  sake  I  have  kept  straight.  At  night,  Muriel, 
whether  I'm  awake  or  asleep,  I  always  see  you — see 
your  eyes  and  hear  your  voice."  His  striking  dark  face 
was  lit  up  for  a  moment.  "  And  sometimes,"  he  said, 
"  we  wander  all  over  the  world,  you  and  I,  and  together 
we  see  its  wonders,  and  together  we  explore  its  secret 
places — and  oh,  Muriel,  we  are  very  happy !  " 

She  looked  off  past  him  as  if  trying  to  see  the  vision, 
too ;  and  as  she  looked  he  thought  a  light  came  into  her 
eyes,  but  quickly  it  went  and  she  shook  her  head  as 
if  forced  to  confess  herself  blind. 

"  Muriel,"  he  said,  "  if  your  spirit's  wearing  a  veil, 
if  you're  still  living  in  a  mist,  then  I'll  wait,  if  need  be, 
forever,  until  it  has  drawn  away.  But  I  must  ask  you 
one  question  before  the  crowd  comes  and  monopolises 
you."  His  voice  faltered  and  fell.  "  Tell  me,  Muriel,  do 
you  care  for  any  one  else?  " 

The  doubts  of  his  youth  had  gathered  once  more  to 
the  surface.  He  thought  of  her  and  Tom,  and  was  sud- 
denly possessed  by  despair.  The  warm  coursing  of  his 
blood  seemed  to  stop.  It  was  as  if  the  whole  of  him 

[181] 


BARRY    GORDON 

waited.  She  saw  a  shadow  cross  his  face,  followed  by  a 
light  which  long  afterwards  she  had  cause  to  remember. 
Then  he  added: 

"  If  you  do,  and  if  you're  sure  you  do — I  believe  I 
love  you  enough  even  to  be  glad  for  your  sake !  " 

Muriel's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  Barry,"  she  said,  "  you  almost  make  me  see  what 
love  is — and  yet  not  quite.  No,  Barry,  I  am  not  in  love 
with  any  one  in  the  world." 

She  saw  as  it  were  a  great  inflow  of  life  return  to  him. 

"  Thanks,  Muriel,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

Then  suddenly  his  pent-up  blood  broke  free  again, 
hot  and  throbbing  and  riotous.  What  he  did  he  scarcely 
knew.  His  arms  folded  her  to  him,  his  lips  found  hers; 
yet  it  was  not  he  himself  that  seemed  to  hold  and  kiss 
her.  She  was  under  the  control  of  some  inner  fire  bursting 
from  his  heart.  The  kiss  was  passionate.  In  it  there  were 
all  the  accumulated  longings  of  his  curbed  youth.  He 
gave  himself  to  her  all  in  a  moment,  soul  and  body. 

Then  he  was  conscious  that  Muriel  receded  from  his 
arms;  and  as  he  looked  at  her  and  saw  her  pallid  face 
and  the  crushed  white  violets  on  her  panting  breast, 
he  had  an  impression  as  of  a  light  going  out — as  of  a 
song  dying  into  silence.  Her  voice  seemed  to  come  from 
infinite  distances. 

"  Oh,  Barry !  "  she  said.  "  Oh,  Barry,  how  could  you 
do  it?  You've  killed  me!" 

[122] 


CHAPTER   IV 

THE   WORLD   ENTERS.       THE   WAY   AN   ARTIST   FELT   ABOUT 
MURIEL.       HOW   BARRY   FELT,    TOO.       MEADfi's   REVENGE 

KITTY  VAN  NESS  found  Muriel  in  her  room 
stretched  on  the  bed  in  a  passion  of  tears. 
Gently  Kitty  soothed  her  and  drew  her  up 
from  the  bed. 

"  Poor  Muriel ! "  she  said,  regarding  her  with  sym- 
pathy. "  Oh,  dear,  your  gauze  skirt  is  all  rumpled ;  your 
white  violets  are  withered.  I  understand.  You  were  too 
lovely,  to  go  unscathed — that's  all." 

Muriel  plucked  the  flowers  from  her  breast  and  tossed 
them  away. 

"  Shall  I  send,"  asked  Kitty,  "  for  a  couple  of  Tom's 
red  roses?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Muriel  vehemently,  "  Tom's !  " 
Kitty   saw   the   rising   tide   of   crimson   in   Muriel's 
cheeks,  and  smiled. 

"  No,  you're  wearing  red  roses  already,"  she  said, 
/   "  and  the  right  one  gave  you  these.  Come,  I  must  re- 
arrange you.  At  any  minute  the  people  will  begin  to 
arrive." 

She  kneeled  and  smoothed  the  disordered  gauze. 
[123] 


BARRY    GORDON 

Muriel  made  her  bow  to  the  world  gracefully  and 
without  affectation.  Her  look  that  day  was  memorable. 
At  first  as  the  footman  announced  the  guests,  many 
could  not  help  pausing  in  the  wide  doorway,  opposite 
Mrs.  Beekman  and  her  daughter,  struck  by  the  young 
girl's  subtle  and  yet  startling  beauty.  Then  the  room 
filled,  and  in  the  packed,  shifting  crowd  the  debutante 
was  visible  only  to  the  nearest,  like  a  picture  on  the  open- 
ing day  of  an  exhibition.  Then  again,  as  the  throng 
moved  toward  the  dining-room  and  the  champagne 
punch,  the  bright  figure  was  occasionally  revealed  in 
perspective. 

At  length,  as  friends  found  friends,  the  crowd  split 
into  close  groups.  In  one  of  these  Pierre  Loew,  a  fashion- 
able portrait  painter,  sufficiently  far  from  Muriel  to 
study  her  without  discourtesy,  observed  in  an  undertone 
that  the  picture  was  by  all  odds  the  most  effective  ar- 
rangement in  white  he  had  ever  seen. 

This  painter  never  hesitated  to  define  people  in  dar- 
ing terms  of  art — if  he  could  do  so  favourably.  For 
topics  conducive  to  clever  comment  he  selected  only  the 
beautiful  in  life — at  least  in  the  houses  of  the  rich.  What 
a  chance,  then,  when  real  loveliness  presented  itself,  and 
praise  was  no  pretence!  The  true  artist  in  him  felt  a 
thrill. 

At  first  he  spoke  flippantly,  his  eye  caught  by  effects 
which,  had  he  obtained  them,  would  have  been  mere 


BARRY  GORDON 

tricks.  He  said  it  was  merely  the  mirror  behind  Miss 
Beekman.  Thanks  to  the  mirror,  Miss  Beekman  was  a 
statue  as  well  as  a  painting.  Wonderful  subject,  that! 
The  sort  to  have  a  try  at.  He  took  in  at  a  glance  the 
reflection  of  her  piquant  back,  the  delicate  symmetry 
of  her  lace-clad  shoulders  and  neck,  the  dainty  and 
spirited  set  of  her  head,  the  upward  curve  of  her 
dark  hair,  and  the  shadows  that  seemed  to  escape  from 
it.  Then  he  lightly  observed  that  the  mirror  "  modelled 
her." 

But  when  Loew  looked  at  Muriel  herself,  apart  from 
her  accidental  reflection  in  the  looking-glass,  his  slum- 
bering artist's  soul  really  awoke,  stirred  by  the  impres- 
sion. He  fell  silent,  grew  moody,  and  let  the  others  talk. 
She  seemed  to  him  one  of  those  rare  studies  without 
definite  outline.  Where  her  outline  ended  and  the  sur- 
rounding air  began  he  could  not  determine.  As  her  hair 
gave  out  shadows,  so  her  face  and  white  form  gave  out 
radiance.  The  same  effect,  he  knew,  attached  to  any- 
thing vivid.  A  cardinal  flower,  for  instance,  is  sur- 
rounded by  a  sort  of  blur.  Its  colour  is  so  intense  that 
the  eye  cannot  define  its  edge.  But  Muriel  Beekman 
was  more  like  an  impression  of  light — a  fragrance  made 
visible. 

A  mercenary  friend  drew  Loew  aside  and  whispered: 

"  Strike  Mrs.  Beekman  for  a  commission.   She  loves 

technicalities.  Talk  shop,  and  she'll  let  you  paint  her 

[125] 


BARRY  GORDON 

daughter.  It's  worth  five  thousand  at  the  least.  They're 
rolling!" 

Loew's  reply  was  impolite. 

"  Go  to  the  deuce ! "  he  muttered ;  then  he  smiled. 
"  No,  come  with  me  to  Mrs.  Beekman."  Together  they 
approached  that  glacial  lady.  "  Mrs.  Beekman,"  said  the 
painter  simply,  "  I  want  to  ask  a  favour.  Let  me  try  a 
portrait  of  your  daughter.  I  will  attempt  it  on  one 
condition — that  you  grant  me  the  pleasure  of  doing  so 
merely  for  the  work's  sake." 

The  room  was  now  a  babel  of  confusion,  the  crowd  so 
closely  packed  that  people  could  barely  move. 

In  another  group  Kitty,  had  she  been  less  generous 
and  whole-souled,  might  have  wished  that  she  had  not 
dressed  Muriel  so  successfully.  For  once  the  compliments 
of  the  men  about  her  were  not  for  her  alone. 

"  Jove ! "  exclaimed  the  youngest  of  these  satellites, 
half  to  himself.  "  Muriel's  stunning  enough  to  drive  a 
man  to  drink !  " 

They  caught  the  words  and  another  muttered: 

"  Yes,  and  then  to  suicide  with  remorse !  " 

"  No,"  said  a  third,  "  worse  yet.  A  man  would  be  hor- 
ribly tempted  to  swear  off  forever !  " 

The  crowd  was  now  divided  into  two  streams — those 
forging  ahead  to  the  dining-room,  those  trying  to  re- 
turn and  say  good-bye. 

At  another  corner  of  the  room  a  ripe  old  club-man 
[126] 


congratulated  Mr.  Beekman.  He  was  blinking  across  at 
Muriel  with  open  satisfaction.  Evidently  her  blushing 
cheeks  and  crimson  baby  lips  appealed  to  him  magically. 

"  I'd  pay  down  a  cool  million,"  he  exclaimed,  "  to 
be  forty  years  younger !  "  He  frowned.  "  Deuce  take  it ! 
There  goes  a  fellow  up  to  her  who's  forty  years  younger 
without  paying  a  penny  !  " 

The  object  of  his  envy  was  Barry  Gordon.  Through 
a  seeming  eternity  Barry  had  been  waiting,  and  now 
came  the  first  moment  when  Muriel  stood  alone.  In  one 
hand  she  held  a  glass  of  punch  untasted,  in  the  other 
a  white  feather  fan  with  which  she  was  cooling  her 
flushed  cheeks.  Barry  went  straight  to  her  and  said  in 
a  low  voice: 

"  I  implore  you,  Muriel — forgive  me !  " 

She  met  his  eyes  coldly,  as  if  without  the  slightest 
recognition.  Then,  not  deigning  to  reply,  she  looked 
past  him,  and  he  saw  her  smile  at  some  one  approaching 
behind  him. 

To  his  surprise  and  disgust,  they  were  joined  by  the 
only  person  in  the  world  who  had  ever  been  his  enemy 
— the  cad  who  years  ago  had  caused  his  flight  from 
school  and  now  his  dismissal  from  college.  How  Meade 
had  happened  to  be  invited  Barry  could  not  guess. 
Probably  Mr.  Beekman  in  his  visits  to  Virginia  had 
known  Meade's  family  and  for  their  sake  was  receiving 
their  son  in  the  North.  It  was  merely  one  of  those  ugly 

[127] 


BARRY  GORDON 

chances  that  seemed  to  crop  up  at  crucial  moments  in 
Barry's  life. 

Meade  was  bringing  two  glasses  of  punch.  When  he 
found  Muriel  already  supplied,  he  turned  to  Barry  and 
with  smooth  effrontery  offered  him  the  extra  glass.  Her 
presence  he  knew  protected  him  from  insult,  and  he 
fairly  basked  in  his  security.  As  he  held  out  the  glass, 
his  narrow  eyes  and  mouth  were  touched  with  an  iron- 
ical smile. 

"  I  propose  a  toast,"  he  said,  "  to  Miss  Beekman, 
on  the  day  of  her  coming  out." 

Barry  paled.  How  could  he  refuse?  If  Meade  had 
suggested  this  on  purpose  to  disarm  him,  it  was  a  clever 
piece  of  trickery,  a  subtle  revenge. 

Had  the  surroundings  been  different,  had  Muriel  not 
been  there,  Barry  knew  he  would  have  struck  the  glass 
from  Meade's  hand.  Even  now,  nothing  but  the  words 
with  which  Meade  offered  it  could  have  made  him  take  it. 

A  toast  to  Muriel  on  the  day  of  her  coming  out ! 

Bitterly  against  his  will,  he  accepted  the  glass.  He 
was  a  Southerner  and  a  gentleman  by  birth  and  nature. 
Courtesy  to  women  was  in  his  blood  and  in  his  heart. 

Yet  he  hesitated,  looking  down  a  moment  into  the  am- 
ber fluid.  Since  his  father's  tragic  death  he  had  not 
drunk  a  drop  of  any  intoxicant.  His  father  had  given 
him  warning;  the  hopes  of  going  through  college  and 
bringing  to  Muriel  a  stainless  record  had  given  him 

[  128] 


BARRY    GORDON 

heart.  But  now,  after  all  his  struggle  to  keep  straight, 
he  found  himself  expelled  from  college  and  forsaken  by 
Muriel,  and  his  heart  was  like  lead.  And  here  stood 
Meade  at  the  critical  juncture,  once  again  controlling 
his  destiny! 

A  toast  to  Muriel  on  the  day  of  her  coming  out ! 

While  he  hesitated  Barry  felt  that  his  apparent  rude- 
ness shocked  and  froze  her.  Yet  she  was  not  to  blame. 
Little  could  she  imagine  how  he  dreaded  the  devil  in  this 
glass.  Little  she  knew  how  the  yellow  lights  in  its  depths 
already  began  to  fascinate  him.  Doubtless  she  thought 
him  merely  piqued  because  she  had  not  forgiven  him 
the  kiss. 

A  toast  to  Muriel  on  the  day  of  her  coming  out ! 

Barry  felt  heavy  and  sick.  He  was  dazed  by  the  iron- 
ical fatefulness  of  the  moment.  He  looked  at  Muriel 
again.  She  lifted  her  head  haughtily  and  turned  to 
Meade.  That  was  all — a  perfectly  natural  and  innocent 
lift  of  her  head.  Yet  the  motion  unsettled  his  future. 

He  looked  down  into  his  glass  as  if  his  soul  were 
drowning  in  it.  Then  again  he  raised  his  eyes  to 
Muriel's  averted  face,  and  they  were  like  the  eyes  of  a 
lost  dog. 

Meade  smiled. 

"  To  the  ideal  bud ! "  he  proposed,  and  sipped  his 
punch,  watching  Barry  out  of  the  tail  of  his  eye. 

Barry  bowed  to  her  in  a  courtly  way  worthy  every 
[129] 


BARRY  GORDON 

tradition  of  his  race,  and  then,  with  a  breaking  heart, 
said  evenly: 

"  Your  happiness,  Muriel !  " 

He  took  a  sip  from  the  glass,  and  said  something  to 
her  in  a  low  voice.  She  did  not  seem  to  hear.  She  began 
talking  vivaciously  to  Meade. 

Again  Barry  drank,  and  again  murmured  some  plea 
in  her  ear.  Still  deaf  to  him,  she  seemed  to  grow  yet  more 
interested  in  Meade. 

Barry  drank  again,  draining  the  glass;  and  Muriel, 
utterly  unconscious  of  the  seeds  of  tragedy  she  was 
sowing,  lightly  ignored  a  third  desperate  overture.  She 
seemed  to  be  fascinated  by  Meade. 

Barry  drifted  away  toward  the  dining-room.  Here, 
at  a  large,  glass-littered  side-table,  stood  Burridge,  the 
pompous  butler,  liberally  ladling  out  his  concoction 
from  an  enormous  silver  punch-bowl,  which  a  footman 
now  and  again  replenished  from  magnums  of  cham- 
pagne. 

There  was  something  inspiring  in  the  sight,  some- 
thing prodigal,  something  suggestive  of  the  liberties  of 
man's  estate.  Burridge  was  ladling  out  streams  of  for- 
bidden joy — reckless  pleasure.  Men  who  drank  were 
happy.  Barry  had  seen  defeated  football  players  weep 
with  disappointment,  then  break  training  and  go  rois- 
tering through  Cambridge  like  victors.  He  had  seen  a 
grind,  just  flunked,  cross  the  campus  crushed;  yet  that 

[130] 


BARRY    GORDON 

very  night,  thanks  to  wine,  the  fellow  had  joked  as 
though  he  had  graduated  with  honours.  If  you  drank, 
it  made  no  difference  whether  you  won  or  lost. 

The  taste  of  the  brew  was  in  Barry's  mouth,  its  fire 
already  in  his  veins.  Nevertheless,  for  a  time  he  held  off. 
Lonely  in  the  crowd,  he  wandered  back  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  Muriel  from  a  distance. 

She  seemed  to  be  living  joyously  in  the  moment,  with 
not  a  thought  of  him,  not  a  shadow  in  her  laughing 
eyes.  She  was  surrounded  by  a  flock  of  adorers,  and 
Tom  had  deposed  Meade.  As  Barry  watched  her  she 
turned  from  the  rest  and  looked  up  at  Tom  as  if  with 
dependence  on  him — as  if  with  love. 

Barry  grew  desperate.  The  affair  seemed  worse  than 
ever.  Meade  was  only  an  enemy ;  Tom  was  a  brother. 

Standing  gazing  at  Muriel  in  open  despair,  he  grad- 
ually became  conscious  that  people  were  watching  him 
with  amusement.  Quivering  under  their  smiles,  he  turned 
back  to  the  dining-room.  Here  stood  Burridge — still 
ladling  out  streams  of  artificial  sunshine  from  the  boun- 
tiful punch-bowl. 

He  would  take  very  little.  That  would  show  more 
courage  than  taking  none  at  all.  He  would  never  drink 
immoderately.  He  would  drink  like  a  man  of  the  world, 
and  gain  a  man  of  the  world's  ease.  Experienced  men 
showed  no  emotion,  probably  felt  none.  Why  should  he? 
How  childish  to  have  so  much  feeling!  What  folly  ever 

[131] 


BARRY  GORDON 

to  have  opened  his  heart  to  Muriel!  How  undignified 
to  have  revealed  his  despair  to  the  world!  Muriel  had 
stabbed  him;  the  world  had  mocked  him.  Never  again 
the  stab  and  mockery.  He  would  drink  and  be  light- 
hearted. 

The  great  barrier  flung  up  so  desperately  by  his 
father  went  down.  His  blood  caught  fire.  The  prodigal- 
ity of  his  race  leapt  up  in  him  in  a  sudden  moment. 
He  threw  restraint  to  the  four  winds. 

With  a  swinging  recklessness  he  went  over  to  Bur- 
ridge  and  asked  for  a  glass  of  punch.  In  a  few  minutes 
he  had  tossed  down  several  more,  and  the  room  swam. 


[132] 


CHAPTER  V 

BURRIDGE  DRAWS  THE  PORTIERES 

A  Barry  moved  through  the  now  diminishing 
crowd,  he  grew  talkative,  entertaining,  witty, 
not  betraying  the  fact  that  the  acquaintances 
to  whom  he  spoke  seemed  to  be  mere  blurs — diverting 
phantoms.  He  paid  another  visit  to  the  unsuspecting 
Burridge ;  and  now  he  began  to  feel  as  if  he  were  walk- 
ing the  deck  of  a  ship  in  a  storm.  He  was  conscious  that 
several  guests  turned  and  stared  as  he  passed  them. 
When  he  spoke  to  Kitty,  her  laugh  had  a  sorry  note  in 
it  that  disturbed  him.  He  wondered  if  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Beekman  would  suspect,  or,  worst  of  all,  Muriel.  Soon, 
however,  he  saw  Muriel's  father — who  cared  little  for  so- 
ciety— slip  from  the  crush  and  retreat  upstairs  to  the 
library. 

As  for  Mrs.  Beekman,  she  did  not  seem  to  take  much 
notice  of  Barry,  or  of  anything  else.  In  a  crowd  this 
stately  lady  always  became  hopelessly  vague.  Every 
faculty,  save  her  natural  good  breeding,  deserted  her. 
At  times  like  these  her  remarks  were  almost  vacuous, 
her  answers  irrelevant,  her  absent-mindedness  pathetic. 
Barry  smiled,  greatly  amused.  Mrs.  Beekman  would  not 

[133] 


BARRY  GORDON 

have  been  surprised,  thought  he,  had  an  elephant  sud- 
denly ambled  into  the  room  and  stood  on  its  head  before 
her.  With  her,  at  least,  he  was  safe. 

As  for  Muriel,  she  was  surrounded  by  so  many  ad- 
mirers that  he  seemed  to  be  entirely  cut  off  from  her 
view. 

After  another  cruise  to  the  prodigious  punch-bowl,  he 
grew  quite  talkative.  He  began  to  feel  he  was  the  life  of 
the  occasion. 

One  thing  bothered  him  ludicrously.  He  kept  meeting 
the  lily-like  Morrison  twins,  and,  try  as  he  would,  he 
could  not  tell  them  apart.  Time  and  again  he  went 
careening  up  to  one  of  them,  cock-sure  she  was  Kate, 
and  the  girl,  much  embarrassed,  would  shyly  remon- 
strate that  she  was  not  Kate,  but  Emily.  Then  the  same 
comedy  over  again,  vice  versa. 

This  inflamed  Barry's  sense  of  the  absurd.  He  began 
to  tell  people  about  it  loquaciously. 

"  Funniest  thing !  Each  Miss  Morrison,"  he  would 
say,  uttering  the  esses  with  great  deliberation,  "  is  al- 
ways the  other  Miss  Morrison.  Most  'straordinary ! " 

In  the  end  he  decided  there  was  only  one  Miss  Morri- 
son, and  this  clear-sighted  conclusion  proved  to  him 
that  he  was  not  nearly  as  tipsy  as  people  supposed. 

The  crowd  was  now  thinning  out,  and  Barry,  catching 
the  general  spirit  of  departure,  fell  amiably  into  line. 
He  thought  he  would  go  and  knock  about  town.  Ahead 

[134] 


BARRY  GORDON 

of  him  the  guests  were  bidding  farewell  to  their 
hostess ;  and  their  hostess,  vaguer  than  ever,  was  mechan- 
ically inclining  her  stately  head.  Every  time  she  bowed, 
thought  Barry,  it  was  as  if  Mont  Blanc  should  suddenly 
begin  nodding  to  people.  In  fact  Mrs.  Beekman's  absent- 
minded  dignity  so  impressed  him  that  when  at  last  he 
stood  before  her  he  felt  quite  overcome. 

Two  or  three  times  he  bowed,  backing  away  speech- 
lessly. Every  one  stared.  His  bows  were  full  of  the  most 
exaggerated  and  grotesque  deference.  Those  who  saw 
were  scandalised ;  but  as  for  Mrs.  Beekman  herself,  she 
was  only  mildly  bewildered.  She  returned  his  salutations 
with  polite  and  imperturbable  gravity. 

As  the  guests  left,  they  smiled.  They  understood,  and 
were  not  surprised.  Mrs.  Beekman's  absent-mindedness 
was  a  by-word.  Nor  was  Barry  surprised.  He  would 
not  have  been  surprised  had  she  salaamed  to  him.  Every- 
thing ludicrous  was  a  matter  of  course,  and  highly  re- 
spectable. 

He  decided  not  to  leave  just  yet,  however.  The  last 
guests  were  shaking  hands  with  Muriel.  That  was  an 
obstacle  to  his  exit  which  he  had  not  considered.  It 
seemed  wiser  not  to  risk  it. 

He  retreated  toward  the  dining-room.  On  his  way  he 
made  open  fun  of  every  one  he  met,  chaffing  them  out- 
rageously, till  he  noticed  that  as  others  approached,  in- 
tent on  departing,  they  shied  off  and  avoided  him. 

[135] 


BARRY  GORDON 

He  saw  them  looking  back  at  him  as  they  left  the 
house.  Then,  as  his  last  cruise  ended,  and  he  hove  to 
in  the  now  deserted  dining-room,  he  passed  through 
a  new  phase. 

Burridge  had  dared  to  refuse  him  another  glass  of 
punch.  He  began  to  berate  the  pompous  butler. 

"  Burridge,"  he  mumbled,  "  Burridge,  you're  a  fool- 
ish old  balloon,  and,  by  Jove,  I'm  thinking  of  pricking 
you ! "  Then  he  tried  persuasion.  "  Burridge,"  said  he, 
"I  take  it  back.  D'you  know  who  you  are,  Burridge? 
You're  the  great  god  Pan.  No,  you're  not.  You're 
Bacchus  himself.  That's  who  you  are !  Ladle  it  out,  Bur- 
ridge ;  ladle  it  out !  " 

Unluckily  for  Barry,  Mrs.  Beekman,  her  mental 
powers  restored  by  the  departure  of  her  guests,  glanced 
through  the  doorway  and  became  aware  of  the  wrangle. 
Her  consciousness  at  once  returned  with  piercing  acute- 
ness.  She  recalled  his  bows,  and  now,  for  the  first  time, 
took  account  of  them.  She  hurried  from  the  ballroom 
in  search  of  her  husband. 

Meanwhile  Muriel  felt  that  her  heart  was  breaking. 
Before  now  her  quick  eye  had  detected  Barry's  condi- 
tion, and  had  seen  that  every  one  was  aware  of  it ;  and 
though  her  friends  had  now  left,  she  still  smarted  under 
the  memory  of  the  sympathetic  glances  with  which  they 
had  bade  her  good-bye. 

Every  detail  of  the  unhappy  scene  had  branded  itself 
[136] 


BARRY    GORDON 

on  her  consciousness.  She  had  noticed  his  changed  looks 
and  heard  his  unnatural  laugh.  If  ever  a  girl  was  filled 
with  shame  she  was.  She  had  indeed  made  her  debut  into 
the  world — a  world  of  evil  and  unhappiness ! 

The  last  guest  had  gone.  The  ballroom  was  empty 
and  desolate,  with  all  the  desolate  emptiness  of  a  large 
room  recently  crowded.  She  was  standing  in  a  wilderness 
alone  with  Tom. 

All  through  the  reception  Tom's  back  had  been  to 
the  crowd,  his  attention  centred  on  Muriel.  Thus  he 
knew  nothing  of  Barry's  condition;  and  Muriel's  face 
had  not  betrayed  her  feelings.  Her  look  and  manner,  in- 
stead of  being  dulled  by  the  shame  of  it  all,  had  been 
feverishly  quickened. 

She  now  led  the  way  to  the  window  and  stood  looking 
out  with  Tom.  It  was  dark,  and  the  last  carriages  were 
leaving.  The  pavements  were  wet  with  rain,  and  the 
vague  patches  of  light  from  the  moving  carriages  trailed 
in  reflected  streaks  on  the  asphalt.  Beyond  lay  the  park, 
wrapped  in  a  black  haze. 

Muriel  at  first  felt  indescribably  lonely  and  tired,  but 
gradually  Tom's  influence  began  to  comfort  and  rest 
her.  His  quiet,  steady  manliness  seemed  more  what  she 
needed  at  this  moment  than  anything  in  the  world.  She 
had  a  saving  sense  of  his  never-failing  care  of  her,  his 
tender  thoughtfulness  and  staunch  simplicity. 

He  stood  close  to  her,  looking  over  her  shoulder  at 
[137] 


BARRY    GORDON 

the  desolate  park.  After  a  long  silence  he  found  voice 
and  asked  awkwardly : 

"  Muriel,  will  you  let  me  love  you?  " 

She  hardly  knew  what  she  answered,  she  felt  so  worn 
and  unreal.  She  thought  she  meant  to  be  merely  friendly. 
When  she  spoke  she  was  still  looking  out  into  the  No- 
vember evening. 

"  Yes,  Tom,  if  you  can.  Yes,  I  want  you  to  love  me. 
I  need  your  love !  " 

This  barely  satisfied  him. 

"  Muriel,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  know  how  to  express  what 
I  mean,  but  I  don't  think  I  mean  that.  You  see  I'm 
fonder  of  you  than  I  am  of  any  one  else  in  the  world. 
At  college  I've  been  a  grind  for  your  sake.  You  know 
I'm  a  year  ahead  of  my  class  and  graduate  this  spring. 
Then  I  start  life  in  earnest,  and  for  your  sake  I  mean 
to  work  hard  and  try  to  become  the  kind  of  man  your 
father  is."  His  voice  fell  and  was  quietly  earnest; 
his  words  were  as  simple  as  his  heart.  "  Then,  Muriel, 
do  you  think  perhaps  some  day  there  may  be  a  chance 
for  me?  That  is  what  I  mean.  Now  at  last  I  have  told 
you.  And  now  at  last  I  am  asking  you  if  you  think  you 
can  ever  care  for  me." 

Muriel  turned  from  the  window  and  looked  longingly 
into  his  eyes.  Quiet  and  content  and  safety  seemed  essen- 
tial to  her.  She  longed  to  regain  her  peaceful  girlhood, 
and  only  Tom  could  restore  it  to  her. 

[138] 


BARRY    GORDON 

As  she  looked  at  him,  her  eyes  did  not  refuse  him. 

Instantly  he  was  beaming  with  hope,  but  no  less 
quickly  a  shadow  crossed  his  face. 

"  Muriel,  I  don't  want  to  be  unfair  to  Barry.  I  want 
to  give  him  every  chance." 

She  smiled  a  wan  little  smile. 

"  No,  Tom,"  she  said  shivering,  "  don't  give  him  any 
chance.  Hold  me  to  this,  and  some  day  make  me " 

Tom  could  scarcely  believe  in  his  good  fortune. 

"  Muriel !  "  he  exclaimed  bewildered,  "  then  do  you 
really  mean — will  you  call  it  an  engagement  ?  " 

Trying  to  realise  it,  he  glanced  past  her  into  the 
night,  which  now  to  him  was  like  day. 

At  this  moment  her  quick  ear  caught  a  sound  in  the 
dining-room — a  low  jingling  of  disturbed  glasses.  In 
spite  of  herself  she  looked  in  that  direction — as  if 
casually. 

The  sight  she  saw  she  never  forgot.  Barry  had 
tripped,  lost  his  balance,  and  fallen  to  the  floor. 

Tom,  blinded  by  his  hopes,  still  gazed  into  vacancy 
and  did  not  see  her  face.  Had  he  seen  it  his  hopes  might 
have  died.  Her  expression,  instead  of  hardening,  was 
filled  with  sorrow  and  a  shuddering  compassion. 

On  the  instant  some  quality  of  womanhood  hitherto 
unguessed  and  all  but  nonexistent  sprang  up  in  Muriel's 
heart.  Though  outwardly  calm,  she  felt  herself  possessed 
by  a  sudden  desire  to  dash  to  the  dining-room,  slip  down 

[139] 


BARRY  GORDON 

beside  Barry,  take  his  head  in  her  lap,  smooth  his  fore- 
head, and  plead  with  him  to  come  back  to  her. 

Burridge  politely  assisted  Barry  to  his  feet  and  drew 
the  portieres  between  the  rooms. 

Muriel  stood  motionless,  dazed.  Frightened  by  her 
wild  impulse,  she  grew  lifelessly  cold.  She  felt  bewil- 
dered, awed,  rebellious  against  herself  and  against  life. 
There  were  traits  in  her  she  had  not  dreamed  of,  dangers 
of  great  outbursts  of  emotion  which  in  her  immaculate 
pride  of  yesterday  she  would  have  scorned  as  weak  or 
evil. 

Tom's  words  still  echoed  through  her — a  gentle,  com- 
forting refrain. 

"Muriel,  will  you  call  it  an  engagement?" 

With  a  quick  impulse  of  self-defence  against  the 
world,  she  answered  him: 

"  Yes,  an  engagement." 


[140] 


CHAPTER    VI 

KITTY  TO   THE  RESCUE.      A  CRISIS  IN   BARRY'S   CAREER. 
THE    CALL    OF    THE    SPHINX 

KITTY  came  to  the  door,  intent  on  carrying 
off  the  poor  crushed  bud  to  console  her. 
When  she  saw  Muriel's  face  she  was  shocked. 
It  was  pallid,  and  scarcely  had  a  ray  of  beauty.  The 
girl's  bearing  was  heavy.  Her  eyes  lacked  lustre,  and 
shadows  lay  under  them.  Her  face,  instead  of  looking 
ethereal,  looked  pinched. 

But  Tom  appeared  so  blissful  and  satisfied  that 
Kitty,  whose  intuition  seldom  failed  her,  laughingly 
backed  out. 

In  the  hall  her  laugh  died,  her  smooth  cheeks  flushed 
hotly,  her  lip  trembled  a  little,  and  she  shrugged. 
Her  pet  of  a  boy,  her  young  angel  in  a  world  of 
old  men,  had  taken  wing  like  many  another  bright 
vision. 

A  sudden  impulse  possessed  her — the  fighting  in- 
stinct of  a  young  but  experienced  campaigner.  She 
hastened  to  the  dining-room  by  a  side  door.  Burridge 
had  left  for  a  moment;  and  the  punch-bowl,  together 
with  the  plates,  glasses,  and  debris  of  the  collation,  had 

[141] 


BARRY  GORDON 

been  removed.  Barry  sat  alone,  his  arms  thrown  out  on 
the  bare  table,  his  face  buried  in  them. 

Kitty  sympathetically  felt  that  his  present  condition 
was  due  more  to  the  suddenness  of  his  breach  of  long 
abstinence  than  to  the  actual  amount  he  had  drunk. 
Moreover,  the  excitement  of  his  scene  with  Muriel  had 
doubtless  contributed  to  his  fall. 

Kitty  touched  one  of  his  broad  shoulders.  Failing 
to  rouse  him,  she  shook  him  impatiently. 

"  Barry,  Barry !  "  she  said  in  a  voice  of  practised 
severity.  "  Brace  up ! "  He  rose  unsteadily  and  stood 
smiling  at  her,  and  she  saw  that  his  sleep,  though  brief, 
had  helped  him.  "  Barry,  can  you  pull  yourself  to- 
gether? " 

"  What's  the  use?  "  he  asked  thickly. 

"  If  you  don't,"  said  Kitty,  "  you've  lost  her.  Barry, 
you're  a  fool !  She  loved  you,  and  she  loves  you  still ; 
but  she's  so  down-hearted  that  she's  letting  another  fel- 
low take  her  away  from  you  right  under  your  nose." 

He  seemed  but  vaguely  disturbed. 

"  Too  bad !  "  she  heard  him  mumble.  "  Great  shame !  " 
Then  he  smiled  weakly.  "  Thanks,  Kitty.  You're  a 
brick.  Better  wait,  though.  Lots  of  time.  Couldn't 
now  possibly.  Everything's  too — too  swimmy." 

She  came  closer  to  him,  grasped  his  arms  in  a  gen- 
tle, steadying  grip,  and  fixed  him  with  a  bright  frown, 
to  penetrate  the  vapours  in  his  brain. 

[142] 


BARRY    GORDON 

"  She's  engaged,"  she  said  incisively,  and  released 
him. 

He  staggered  as  if  struck,  caught  himself  against 
the  table,  and  uttered  some  inaudible  word  that  sounded 
like  a  moan.  The  shock  sobered  him  as  only  a  great 
shock  could.  With  a  remarkable  effort  of  will,  he  suc- 
ceeded in  accomplishing  an  almost  phenomenal  change. 
A  tremor  ran  through  him,  and  every  muscle  seemed 
to  be  strained.  Kitty  saw  him  as  if  in  the  throes  of 
some  overwhelming  transition.  After  this  he  relaxed, 
passed  a  hand  across  his  brow,  paled,  and  stood  weak- 
ened, but  almost  himself. 

Kitty's  eyes  shone  with  admiration. 

"  Barry !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  never  do  that  again,  or 
you'll  make  me  fall  in  love  with  you  myself.  Muriel's  a 
fool  if  she  doesn't  gamble  on  you!  Come! — no,  wait! 
You  must  see  her  alone." 

She  slipped  between  the  portieres  and  made  for  the 
couple  in  the  window. 

"  Tom — just  a  minute !  I  want  to  speak  to  you. 
Forgive  me,  Muriel — a  secret !  " 

She  carried  it  off  so  quickly,  so  high  handedly,  that 
Tom  meekly  followed  her  to  the  conservatory. 

"  Tom,  you're  an  interloper,"  she  began  to  ripple. 
"  You're  a  meddler.  You're  interfering  with  destiny, 
with  the  stars  in  their  courses.  You  have  no  intuitions, 
Tom — none  whatever.  Can't  you  see  that  Muriel  and 

[143] 


BARRY  GORDON 

Barry  were  born  for  each  other?  Can't  you  see  that 
you  can  never  win  her  soul  ?  " 

"  No,  I  can't  see  that,"  said  Tom  stoutly.  "  I'll  be 
shot  if  I  can  !  " 

"  Then  you're  a  blind  bat,"  said  Kitty,  and  garru- 
lously continued  to  kill  time. 

Barry  went  slowly  to  Muriel.  When  he  saw  her  he 
was  stricken  with  remorse.  Her  eyes,  as  he  came  to 
her,  were  so  rebuking,  so  piteous,  that  he  could  have 
wept.  He  felt  as  if  sinking  down  through  some  abyss. 
Drowning,  he  grasped  at  straws. 

"  Muriel,"  he  said,  "  I  won't  believe  you  have  prom- 
ised. Is  it  Tom?" 

She  nodded,  trying  to  smile  through  a  mist  of  tears. 

"  Then  what  can  I  say,  Muriel  ?  Tom's  worth  thou- 
sands of  me."  Barry  tried  to  smile,  too,  though  his 
mind  was  dazed  and  his  soul  in  torment.  "  I  can  only 
hope  you'll  be  happy.  If  I  ever  again  pray,  that  will 
be  my  prayer." 

He  turned  away,  leaving  her  alone  at  the  window 
looking  out  into  the  darkness. 

In  the  hall  he  met  Mr.  Beekman,  who  was  evidently 
coming  for  him.  Mr.  Beekman  started  to  help  him  up- 
stairs, but  Barry  quietly  protested  that  he  needed  no 
assistance.  Standing  off  and  scrutinising  him,  Mr. 
Beekman  saw  that,  though  his  eyes  were  feverishly 

[144] 


BARRY    GORDON 

lighted,  he  was  sober  enough  to  be  called  to  account 
at  once.  This  was  Mr.  Beekman's  way — immediate  con- 
viction, and  be  done  with  it. 

"  Barry,"  he  said  coldly,  "  I've  just  been  told  that 
you  drank  too  much  and  insulted  our  guests.  Barry, 
you've  disgraced  us  all."  He  turned  away,  too  indig- 
nant to  say  more. 

"  Mr.  Beekman !  " 

A  calm  but  alarming  intensity  in  Barry's  tone  made 
Mr.  Beekman  turn  back  to  him. 

"What,  Barry?" 

Barry  lowered  his  voice. 

"  Mr.  Beekman,"  said  he,  "  I've  been  dropped  from 
college." 

To  his  surprise  Mr.  Beekman  nodded. 

"  I've  heard  the  facts,"  he  said,  "  and  congratulate 
you." 

Barry  shrugged. 

"  Don't,  please !  Everything  white  in  life  is  soiled 
now  and  blackened — and  the  worst  of  it  is  I've  done  it 
myself."  He  was  speaking  slowly,  to  dispel  the  thick- 
ness of  his  utterance.  "  I've  spoiled  Muriel's  day — a 
day  she's  looked  forward  to  so  long.  I've  been  rude 
to  Mrs.  Beekman  and  insulting  to  your  guests.  In 
short,  I've  behaved  like  an  ass ;  and  so  I've  decided — " 
He  paused,  nerving  himself,  and  his  eyes  had  a  lost 
look. 

[145] 


BARRY  GORDON 

"What  have  you  decided?  "  asked  Mr.  Beekman  un- 
easily. 

"  The  truth  is,  Mr.  Beekman,  I've  decided  to  light 
out." 

Mr.  Beekman  started  a  little,  but  almost  instantly 
recovered  his  composure. 

"  Light  out  for  where?  " 

"  The  world,"  said  Barry. 

Mr.  Beekman  looked  amused. 

"  The  world's  fairly  wide,  you  know." 

"  The  wider  the  better.  I've  always  dreamed  about 
this.  Ever  since  my  father's  death  I've  been  growing 
more  restless." 

Barry  began  pacing  back  and  forth  in  the  great, 
square  hall.  Mr.  Beekman,  taking  up  a  stand  on  a  huge 
tiger-skin  rug  with  his  back  to  an  imposing  fireplace 
devoid  of  fire,  studied  him  carefully. 

"  Sometimes  at  college,"  persisted  Barry,  "  I  went 
almost  mad  with  this  desire  to  drop  it  all  and  start 
out  for  nowhere — for  everywhere.  I  got  maps  and 
planned  trips  all  over  the  world.  I've  read  bushels  of 
books  of  travel  in  half  a  dozen  languages.  There  are 
thousands  of  things  and  places  I've  dreamed  about." 
His  eyes  were  lit  up  and  his  cheeks  flushed.  "  And  now 
I  swear  I'm  going  to  see  them ! " 

Mr.  Beekman  frowned,  bewildered  by  this  outburst. 

"See  what?"  he  asked. 

[146] 


BARRY    GORDON 

Barry  paused  in  his  restless  march,  and,  gazing 
through  the  doorway  into  the  large,  dim  mirror,  began 
to  smile  as  if  seeing  in  its  depths  far  visions,  one  after 
another  appearing  and  dissolving  before  him.  He  came 
and  faced  Mr.  Beekman.  The  two,  as  usual  in  their 
duels,  stood  through  the  whole  interview,  Barry  too 
impatient  to.  sit,  Mr.  Beekman  too  alert. 

Barry  spoke  more  and  more  fluently,  his  voice  reso- 
nant and  low,  his  brain  nearly  sober,  but  his  soul  half 
intoxicated  with  a  sudden  power  of  talk.  He  began, 
as  it  were,  to  list  his  visions : 

"  I  want  to  see,"  he  said  swiftly,  "  the  Taj  Mahal  at 
Agra,  the  Generalife  and  Court  of  the  Lions  at  Gra- 
nada. I  want  to  see  the  ruins  of  Carthage  and  the 
Greek  theatre  at  Taormina  with  the  moon  fading  above 
Etna  as  the  sun  rises  over  the  Calabrian  hills.  I  want 
to  look  up  at  the  Matterhorn,  Fujiyama,  the  great 
pyramid  of  Cheops.  And  I  want  to  put  a  riddle  to  the 
Sphinx." 

Mr.  Beekman  shifted,  much  disturbed. 

"What  riddle?" 

Barry  shrugged. 

"I  shall  simply  ask  her:  'Why?' — the  eternal 
'why?'" 

"  And  she,  being  the  eternal  feminine,"  said  Mr. 
Beekman  with  a  forced  smile,  "  will  answer :  '  Just  be- 
cause.' ' 

[147] 


BARRY  GORDON 

Barry  laughed  inconsequently,  and  made  a  wry  gri- 
mace. 

"  Then  I'll  scratch  her  neck,"  said  he,  "  and  make 
her  purr." 

"  Barry,"  said  Mr.  Beekman,  "  you're  a  case." 

"  Yes,  and  the  Sphinx  is  a  cat." 

"  There's  no  need  of  your  consulting  her,"  protested 
Mr.  Beekman.  "  Put  your  problems  to  me,  and  I'll  try 
to  help  you  work  them  out." 

Barry  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"  No  one  can  help  me,  Mr.  Beekman.  My  father 
talked  to  me  before  he  died  in  a  way  that  ought  to  have 
kept  me  from  drinking."  A  deep  shadow  crossed  Barry's 
eyes.  "  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  did  keep  me  straight  a 
while,  but  sometimes  I  nearly  went  crazy  with  restless- 
ness." Again  he  shrugged  carelessly  and  laughed.  "  And 
to-day  I  dropped  the  whole  thing  and  fairly  dived  into 
the  punch-bowl !  " 

His  manner  again  grew  serious,  mood  following  mood 
with  every  impulse  of  his  volatile  nature. 

"  Mr.  Beekman,  if  my  own  father  couldn't  help  me, 
how  can  you?  No;  what  I  need  is  life — the  world — art ! 
Oh,  you  don't  know  how  I  long  to  see  all  the  paintings 
and  statues — all  the  masterpieces !  " 

He  moved  away,  walked  to  and  fro  again,  then 
paused  and  once  more  gazed  at  the  visions  appearing 
and  dissolving  in  the  distant  mirror. 

[148] 


BARRY    GORDON 

"  I  want  to  see  Guide  Reni's  *  Beatrice  Cenci,' "  he 
meditated,  "  but  I  don't  want  her  eyes  to  look  at  me ! " 
He  paused,  shivered  slightly,  and  lowered  his  lids,  as 
if  under  the  gaze  of  some  rebuking  spirit.  Then  he 
laughed  away  this  haunted  expression  and  floated  off 
again  on  the  current  of  his  dreams.  "  I  want  to  see 
Titian's  *  Flora  ' — she  is  much  pleasanter  than  Beatrice. 
Beatrice  freezes  you  with  her  eyes;  Flora  warms  you 
with  her  hair.  And  then  the  statues — the  Hermes  of 
Praxiteles,  and  the  Medici  Venus,  and  all  the  Bacchuses 
and  drunken  Fauns !  " 

"  Barry,"  said  Mr.  Beekman,  "  you're  incorrigible !  " 

Barry  nodded.  The  current  seemed  to  be  carrying 
him  forth  like  a  wild,  sunny  river  on  which  he  was 
already  drifting  out  into  the  ocean  of  the  world. 

"  I  want  to  drink  beer  in  Heidelberg,  sake  in  Tokio, 
vodka  in  Moscow.  I  want  to  eat  olives  in  Tuscany,  figs 
in  Smyrna,  honey  in  Malta.  I  want  to  read  Thucydides, 
not  in  the  Harvard  library,  but  on  the  Ionian  shore. 
I  want  to  read  Hackluyt,  not  cooped  in  a  room,  but  on 
the  ocean.  I  want  to  read  Hafiz  in  a  Persian  garden, 
"Rarahu"  in  the  South  Seas,  "La  Vie  de  Boheme  " 
in  the  Quarter,  "  Arria  Marcella  "  at  Pompeii.  I  want 
to  search  for  the  buried  poems  of  Sappho  in  Hercu- 
laneum — and  for  happiness  all  over  the  world.  I  want 
to  hear  bagpipes  in  the  Scottish  Highlands,  shepherds' 
pipes  in  the  Pyrenees,  violins  in  Hungary,  the  organ 

[149] 


BARRY  GORDON 

in  Notre  Dame,  guitars  in  Naples,  and  tom-toms  in 
Timbuctoo."  He  laughed  again  with  whimsical,  irre- 
sponsible mirth.  "  Yes,  I  really  must  hear  tom-toms 
in  Timbuctoo !  " 

He  paused  and  suddenly  changed.  His  face  clouded 
and  paled;  his  muscles  relaxed;  his  humour  and  fiery 
vehemence  left  him.  He  looked  inert  and  helpless. 

Crossing  the  hearth,  he  lifted  his  arms  to  the  mantel 
shelf  and  buried  his  face  in  them.  After  all  his  mental 
pictures,  all  the  glory  and  beauty  and  comedy  of  his 
visions,  there  came  a  crushing  sense  of  loneliness.  Till 
now  he  had  always  wandered  over  the  world  hand  in 
hand,  as  it  were,  with  Muriel.  In  every  dream  she  had 
been  the  moving  spirit,  the  inspiration,  the  deeper  lure ; 
but  now  the  visions  were  without  a  soul,  and,  much  as 
he  had  made  of  them  in  this  impetuous  talk,  he  saw  at 
last,  with  a  sickening  disillusion,  that  all  their  colour, 
rhythm,  and  beauty  were  gone. 

He  turned  from  the  mantel  with  a  new  and  grim 
sort  of  recklessness ;  and  Mr.  Beekman  was  reminded 
of  the  portrait  of  General  Nicholas  Gordon — a  wolf  of 
a  man. 

Barry  glanced  down  at  the  tiger-skin  before  the  fire- 
place. 

"  I'd  like  to  bag  a  few  of  these  chaps ! "  he  said, 
frowning  into  the  glass  eyes.  Then  he  looked  up  and 
tensely  faced  Mr.  Beekman.  "  I  want  to  go  into  the 

[150] 


BARRY  GORDON 

wilds.  Where  the  map  is  blank  and  no  man's  been,  I 
want  to  go."  He  flung  back  his  head  and  squared  his 
powerful  shoulders.  "  And  wherever  there's  fighting," 
he  cried  recklessly,  his  blood  leaping  with  the  words, 
"  by  God,  I  want  to  fight !  " 

Mr.  Beekman  smiled,  not  without  admiration,  and 
laid  a  strong  white  hand  on  Barry's  arm. 

"  My  boy,  you're  too  fiery  for  these  times.  Curb 
yourself.  Train  yourself.  Harness  your  energy.  If  you 
do,  I  can  use  you  in  business,  in  politics.  You  need  pow- 
erful influences  to  hammer  you  into  shape.  With  this 
nature  of  yours  properly  equipped  and  confined  to  steel 
rails  like  a  locomotive,  I  can  do  a  lot  with  you." 

Barry  laughed. 

"  You  can't  run  a  horse  on  rails  like  a  locomotive. 
He  goes  on  hoofs,  not  wheels.  So  do  I  go  on  hoofs — 
like  the  devil !  " 

Mr.  Beekman  ignored  this  levity. 

"  Tom's  learning  the  technical  part — engineering.  I 
can  start  you  on  the  human  part — the  upper  stratum 
from  which  men  of  imagination  and  potential  force  play 
the  game  and  move  the  pawns." 

Barry  shook  his  head. 

"  I'd  get  impatient,  send  the  chessboard  flying, 
and  break  up  the  game.  No,  Mr.  Beekman,  I've  got 
to  get  out  into  wide  expanses — the  Western  plains  or 
Eastern  deserts.  I  want  to  be  free;  I  need  to  be  free — 

[151] 


BARRY  GORDON 

free ! "  he  cried  passionately.  "  The  only  powerful  in- 
fluences that  can  hammer  me  into  shape  are  the  four 
winds  of  heaven !  " 

Mr.  Beekman  felt  utterly  at  a  loss.  In  the  bringing 
up  of  male  youth  he  was  inexperienced;  he  had  never 
had  a  son.  All  his  life  he  had  managed  men  in  the  mass, 
built  railroads,  guided  political  parties,  but  the  fine 
steel  of  his  character  had  never  been  pitted  against  any 
quality  of  human  nature  as  large  and  hot  as  this.  To 
try  and  harness  Barry  seemed  like  trying  to  put  hand- 
cuffs on  a  flame. 

Nevertheless,  he  did  not  outwardly  betray  his  disad- 
vantage. 

"  Barry,"  he  said  impassively,  "  under  the  terms  of 
your  father's  will  even  your  income  is  in  my  control 
until  you're  thirty  years  old.  Well  and  good !  You  Gor- 
dons have  always  been  spoiled  by  money  and  the  indul- 
gent weakness  of  your  family  and  friends.  We'll  see 
what  several  years  of  poverty  will  do — several  years  on 
rock  bottom."  He  spoke  as  if  to  himself,  his  eyes  nar- 
rowing. "  That  might  work  well.  You  might  find  your- 
self. You  might  come  out  of  it  a  man  of  character,  a 
man  of  mark."  He  looked  up  at  Barry  with  swift  deci- 
sion. "  If  you  go,"  he  said,  "  you  go  without  a  penny ! " 

Barry  started,  frowned,  and  bit  his  lip. 

"  Do  you  mean  that?  " 

"  I  mean  it." 

[152] 


BARRY  GORDON 

Mr.  Beekman's  face  cleared  and  he  smiled.  He  had 
put  Barry's  wanderlust  to  the  severest  test,  and  proved 
it  harmless.  Fine  talk  that,  about  making  the  Sphinx 
purr  and  hearing  tom-toms  in  Timbuctoo!  Fine  talk, 
but  money  had  talked  more  to  the  point.  The  Sphinx 
doesn't  purr  for  nothing.  It  costs  to  get  to  her.  Money 
makes  the  mare  go  and  the  Sphinx  purr  and  the  tom- 
toms raise  a  racket  in  Timbuctoo. 

Barry's  look  of  dazed  defeat  greatly  relieved  him. 
He  considered  the  matter  settled. 

"  Never  mind,  Barry,"  he  said  kindly,  "  some  day 
perhaps  we'll  all  go  there  and  hear  those  tom-toms; 
but  at  present  we've  got  to  be  practical."  He  started 
up-stairs,  impatient  for  a  cigarette.  "  Come  up  to  the 
library  as  soon  as  you  feel  like  it,"  he  said,  looking 
down  over  the  banisters,  "  and  we'll  talk  business." 

Left  alone  in  the  great  hall,  Barry  smiled  bitterly. 
The  mention  of  business  at  such  a  moment  seemed  a 
cruel,  incongruous  absurdity.  A  cry  to  Mr.  Beekman 
rose  in  his  heart,  but  he  stifled  it.  He  drew  himself  up 
in  a  soldierly  way,  took  his  hat  and  gloves  from  the 
rack  in  the  hall,  and  drifted  out  aimlessly  into  the 
night. 


[153] 


CHAPTER    VII 

AN    ANXIOUS    EVENING.       MR.    BEEKMAN    PLAYS   PATIENCE. 
A  LETTER  FROM  NOWHERE 

SHADOWS  of  anxiety  brooded  that  night  over 
the  Beekman  family.  Barry  without  a  word 
had  gone  out  just  after  the  reception,  and 
though  it  was  long  past  midnight,  he  had  not  returned. 

The  house  was  profoundly  silent.  Nothing  recalled 
Muriel's  debut  save  a  faint  odour  of  massed  flowers,  as- 
cending from  down-stairs. 

"  Tom,"  said  Mrs.  Beekman,  sniffing  the  air,  "  please 
shut  the  door.  That  odour's  like  a  funeral !  " 

In  the  library,  where  they  sat,  the  gloom  lay  even 
deeper  than  in  the  other  empty  rooms.  As  a  rule,  this 
library  seemed  a  sanctuary  with  many  influences.  In  its 
rich  atmosphere  there  was  personality ;  in  its  well-bound 
books  that  lined  the  walls  from  floor  to  ceiling  spirit 
and  intellect ;  in  its  wide  wood  fire  a  big  heart.  Here 
and  there  huge  leather  lounging  chairs  offered  com- 
forting arms  and  prodigious  laps — like  great  mothers. 
Tables  with  books,  magazines,  and  the  photographs  of 
friends  gave  evidence  of  the  conventional  everyday  life 
of  a  rich  and  yet  contented  family.  But  to-night  there 

[154] 


BARRY  GORDON 

was  no  ease  in  the  room's  quiet.  The  silence  was  rest- 
less. They  were  all  waiting. 

Muriel  glanced  wearily  at  her  father.  He  was  try- 
ing to  read  his  Evening  Post\  but  she  could  tell  by 
his  absent  look  that  to-night  the  quotations  in  the 
financial  columns  were  as  meaningless  to  him  as  hiero- 
glyphs. 

She  glanced  dully  at  her  mother.  Mrs.  Beekman,  as 
usual,  sat  rigid  in  a  straight-backed  chair  under  an 
electric  light  with  a  plain  green  shade.  This  corner 
sternly  proclaimed  itself  hers.  In  an  alcove,  far  from 
the  fire,  it  afforded  her  a  sort  of  office  where,  on  a  desk, 
numerous  ethical  and  sociological  pamphlets  were  neatly 
piled,  her  correspondence  neatly  pigeonholed.  In  a  chair 
opposite  her  lay  a  green  chintz  workbag.  She  was  nerv- 
ously knitting  washrags  for  the  poor. 

Muriel  restlessly  looked  away.  The  mechanical  dance 
of  the  steel  needles  was  as  irritating  as  the  ticking  of 
the  clock. 

She  sat  curled  up  in  one  of  the  big  armchairs  by 
the  fire,  not  even  pretending  to  read,  not  orice  glancing 
at  Tom,  who  sat  near,  watching  over  her  with  a  new 
moodiness  foreign  to  his  nature.  To  him  she  seemed 
so  ethereally  aloof  that,  though  he  longed  to  try  to  com- 
fort her,  he  did  not  dare. 

For  this  forbearance  Muriel  felt  grateful  to  him. 
Talk  would  have  driven  her  mad.  She  was  lost  in  a  great 

[155] 


BARRY    GORDON 

void.  She  felt  numb  and  unreal  and  very  lonely.  Her 
father  and  mother  and  Tom  were  no  more  than  ghosts. 
What  was  Tom's  guarding  love  to  her  now?  What  were 
her  father's  tenderness,  her  mother's  stern  care  of  her? 
In  all  her  small  troubles  these  had  upheld  and  strength- 
ened her.  Her  high-strung  temperament,  instead  of 
making  her  independent,  had  made  her  lean  yieldingly 
in  trivial  matters  on  people  who  loved  her.  But  to-night 
there  was  no  one  in  the  world  who  could  bring  her  out 
of  her  great  loneliness  and  make  her  happy. 

No  one? 

Waves  of  hot  colour  surged  up  suddenly  to  her  tem- 
ples. She  thought  of  the  moment  when  Barry  had  held 
her  in  his  arms. 

She  closed  her  eyes.  It  was  as  if  she  felt  his  lips  on 
hers  again — but  now  her  heart  responded.  The  kiss  was 
like  a  red  flower  in  the  great  void.  But  the  flower  had 
died. 

Tom  heard  a  sharp  catch  in  her  breath  and  was  trou- 
bled. 

"Muriel,"  he  said,  "what's  the  matter?  Don't  you 
feel  well?" 

Mrs.  Beekman,  glancing  at  the  two,  compressed  her 
thin  lips.  Tom  was  tiring  Muriel.  The  girl's  nerves  were 
unstrung.  Oh,  the  vanity  of  these  debuts !  The  folly  of 
these  love  affairs! 

"  Tom,"  said  Mrs.  Beekman  suddenly,  "  I'm  really 
[156] 


BARRY  GORDON 

disappointed  in  you.  I'm  afraid  you're  going  to  be  a  ' 
sentimentalist."  ' 

Tom  looked  up,  wondering  if  she  guessed. 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?  "  he  asked  uneasily. 

"  Because  you  belong  to  the  male  sex,  and  the  male 
sex  is  the  sentimental  sex."  She  frowned  at  her  dancing 
needles.  "  I  saw  you  in  the  conservatory  with  Kitty  Van 
Ness.  She  was  making  love  to  you." 

Tom  felt  immensely  relieved.  For  all  his  obtuse- 
ness,  he  saw  that  Mrs.  Beekman  was  intent  on  di- 
verting Muriel  by  rousing  her  to  the  defence  of  her 
friend. 

"Making  love  to  me?  Never!"  he  exclaimed.  "Kit- 
ty's a  good  fellow,  that's  all — one  in  a  thousand !  " 

Mrs.  Beekman's  nostrils  flared. 

"  Fellow,  indeed !  Not  she !  That's  her  favourite  role. 
I've  never  known  such  a  consummate  actress." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  say  that,"  protested  Tom,  with 
loyal  warmth.  "  Kitty's  the  salt  of  the  earth — honest 
as  the  day  is  long." 

Mrs.  Beekman  smiled  cynically. 

"  I  confess  Kitty  feels  the  part  she  acts.  That's  the 
worst  of  it.  She's  acting  and  she  isn't  acting.  She's  in  , 
love  and  she  isn't  in  love — all  at  the  same  moment  with 
the  same  man."  Mrs.  Beekman  glanced  piercingly  across 
at  Muriel.  "  I  cannot  but  pity,"  said  she,  "  these  over- 
feminine  women." 

[157] 


BARRY  GORDON 

She  sighed,  and  resumed  her  work.  The  attempt  had 
failed.  Muriel  did  not  stir  or  open  her  eyes.  She  had  not 
even  heard  what  her  mother  had  said. 

Tom  gazed  down  at  her  forlornly,  dumbly  wonder- 
ing what  her  thoughts  were.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Muriel 
had  forgotten  his  presence.  She  was  utterly  alone  in 
the  gray  void.  Slowly  a  rising  tide  of  tears  over- 
brimmed her  eyes,  and  one  drop  stole  out  under  her 
lowered  lashes. 

Tom,  woe-begone,  bent  closer  to  her. 

"  Muriel,"  he  whispered,  "  don't !  What's  the  mat- 
ter? "  He  longed  to  console  her,  but  the  fact  that 
Barry's  non-appearance  seemed  to  be  the  cause  of  her 
despondency  deterred  him.  Exactly  what  Barry  had 
done  he  could  not  make  out — evidently  something  which 
none  of  them  cared  to  discuss.  He  felt  bewildered  and 
helpless.  As  a  rule,  she  had  leaned  on  him,  confided  in 
him.  He  had  blindly  believed  that  he  understood  her. 
But  to-night  she  was  wrapped  in  a  sad  reserve  which 
he  did  not  dare  to  penetrate. 

Yet  something  must  be  done.  He  could  bear  it  no 
longer.  With  an  instinctive  appeal  he  crossed  to  Mrs. 
Beekman,  and  said  in  an  undertone: 

"  Muriel's  crying." 

He  had  a  way  that  went  to  people's  hearts.  Mrs. 
Beekman  looked  very  uncomfortable.  Rolling  up  her 
washrag,  she  poked  the  needles  through  it  and  dropped 

[158] 


BARRY    GORDON 

it  into  the  chintz  bag.  As  she  looked  over  at  Muriel  her 
bleak  face  softened.  She  rose  and  went  to  her. 

"  Dear  child,"  she  said,  "  you're  tired.  It's  all  the 
excitement — the  crowd.  Come  to  bed." 

Muriel  lightly  sprang  up,  dashed  away  her  tears  and 
smiled. 

"  No,  I'm  not  tired — not  a  bit,"  she  said,  her  pride 
stinging  her  into  self-defence.  "  Come,  let's  do  some- 
thing. Tom,  you're  an  owl !  " 

She  turned  away  and  drifted  idly  about  the  room, 
taking  up  a  magazine  here  and  glancing  at  its  pictures, 
a  book  there  and  tossing  it  aside  unopened. 

Mrs.  Beekman  could  stand  the  strain  no  longer.  She 
went  to  her  husband  and  confronted  him. 

"  Frank,  why  don't  we  speak  out  ?  All  the  evening 
we've  been  thinking  of  one  thing  only,  and  yet  we 
haven't  dared  to  mention  it.  We're  moral  cowards.  We're 
afraid  to  face  facts — our  thoughts — our  fears."  Her  pale 
blue  eyes  were  wide  with  anxiety.  "  Where's  Barry  ?  " 

Muriel  glanced  up  from  a  magazine.  Tom  looked  at 
Mr.  Beekman.  The  dropping  of  a  pin  would  have  been 
audible.  The  ticking  of  the  clock  was  appalling.  Mr. 
Beekman,  the  picture  of  discomfort,  shifted  in  his  chair, 
shrugged,  and  forced  a  smile. 

"  My  dear,  how  should  I  know  ?  Are  you  worried  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  and  so  are  you." 

He  tried  to  look  surprised. 
[159] 


BARRY    GORDON 

"I  worried?  Why  should  I  be?  Nonsense!" 

"  I  can't  understand  it,"  persisted  Mrs.  Beekman. 
"  He  so  rarely  stays  away  from  dinner  without  telling 
us.  After  all  that  happened  to-day,  you  must  confess 
it  looks  serious."  She  suddenly  shot  a  glance  at  Muriel. 
"Where  is  he?" 

Muriel  shook  her  head  in  silence.  Mrs.  Beekman 
turned  to  Tom. 

"Where  is  he?" 

Tom  saw  that  Muriel  waited  breathless  for  his  answer. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said  doggedly ;  then  in  spite  of 
his  growing  jealousy  his  kind  heart  prevailed.  For  Mu- 
riel's sake  he  made  light  of  it.  "  I  call  it  much  ado  about 
nothing,"  he  said.  "  He's  gone  to  the  theatre,  of  course, 
and  to  supper  afterwards.  He  told  me  he  was  going 
every  blessed  night  when  he  came  to  New  York." 

Mrs.  Beekman  frowned. 

"  He's  too  fond  of  pleasure,"  she  muttered.  "  He 
wastes  his  money  and  his  time."  Nevertheless,  she  looked 
reassured,  and  Muriel,  too,  brightened.  One  and  all  they 
were  warmed  by  the  ray  of  hope,  dim  and  artificial 
though  it  was. 

Mr.  Beekman  rose,  fetched  his  card-table  from  the 
corner,  unfolded  it,  and  reseated  himself  comfortably 
in  his  armchair.  Then  he  lit  a  cigarette  and  fell  to  shuf- 
fling the  pack  for  a  game  of  patience. 

"  A  game,"  said  he,  "  very  appropriate  at  present." 
[160] 


BARRY    GORDON 

Tom,  now  heart  and  soul  in  his  task  of  cheering  them, 
drew  up  chairs  with  bustling  enthusiasm,  as  if  there 
could  be  nothing  pleasanter  than  to  watch  Mr.  Beek- 
man's  intricate  pastime. 

But  his  efforts  were  doomed  to  failure.  Mr.  Beek- 
man  had  but  just  begun  the  game,  had  but  just  set  out 
the  cards,  and  glimpsed  their  obscure  combinations, 
when  the  silence  was  broken  by  the  entrance  of  Bur- 
ridge,  bringing  a  note. 

"  Messenger,  sir.  No  answer,"  the  butler  said,  and 
withdrew  in  heavy  gloom. 

As  Mr.  Beekman  opened  the  envelope,  they  gathered 
behind  him  and  read  over  his  shoulders: 

DEAR  MR.  BEEKMAN:  I've  thought  it  out  and  decided  to  go. 
If  others  have  worked  their  way  around  the  world,  why  can't  I  ? 
In  every  way  it  seems  best.  It  will  relieve  you  all  of  constant 
bother.  If  anything  in  me  pans  out  worth  while,  well  and  good. 
You  will  be  glad  I  went  away  to  find  myself.  If  not — then  good 
riddance  to  bad  rubbish. 

I  talked  big  to  you  about  traveling,  but  it's  hard  to  go.  I  think 
I  can  understand  the  feelings  of  a  ghost  when  just  after  death  it 
starts  out  into  nothingness. 

But  don't  worry  and  don't  try  to  trace  me.  This  is  the  one 
favor  I  ask.  Leave  me  to  the  world,  and  myself,  and  God — if 
there  is  a  God. 

With  more  love  for  you  all  than  you  will  ever  know, 

Yours, 

BABRY. 

[161] 


BOOK    IV 
THE  ROLLING  STONE 


CHAPTER    I 

PARIS,  THE  WORLD'S  HALF-WAY  HOUSE.    THE  MAN  IN  THE 

CHAMPS   ELYSEES.      A   TOY   BALLOON    VANISHES, 

AND  AN  OLD  FRIEND  APPEARS 

EFFING  on  a  chair  in  the  Champs  Elysees,  he 
let  the  full  impression  of  this  sparkling  Sun- 
day afternoon  in  early  spring  saturate  his 
mind  and  senses. 

It  was  not  half  bad  to  be  here  again.  In  fact,  after 
years  of  roving,  it  seemed  only  natural,  almost  neces- 
sary. Any  wanderer,  as  a  matter  of  course,  returns 
again  and  again  to  Paris.  On  the  great  eastern  high- 
road between  America  and  Asia  this  was  the  traveller's 
half-way  house,  the  world's  tavern — this  Paris. 

You  might  work  your  way  far  and  see  much  in  the 
immense  spherical  desert  bounded  by  the  poles  and  the 
sunrise  and  the  sunset,  but  this  was  the  only  oasis — 
this  Paris. 

You  might  climb  the  Alps  and  have  a  look  at  the 
kingdoms  of  the  earth ;  you  might  lie  on  a  shore  in  the 
South  Seas  and  let  your  fancy  meander  among  the 
kingdoms  of  the  stars ;  you  might  find  yourself  cling- 
ing to  a  reef  in  the  Antarctic  Ocean,  and  begin  to  won- 

[165] 


BARRY  GORDON 

der  about  the  kingdoms  of  the  deep ;  or,  wrecked  more 
hopelessly  in  the  streets  of  London,  you  might  stand 
and  listen  to  a  preacher  on  a  barrel,  and  be  warned  in 
strident  cockney  of  a  kingdom  deeper  yet — the  old  bib- 
lical hell;  or  in  any  cathedral  of  an  Easter  Sunday 
morning  you  might  fancy  yourself  floating  on  the  wings 
of  the  music  to  the  old  biblical  heaven ;  but  if  you  wanted 
pleasure,  sheer  pleasure,  this  was  the  only  place  for  it — 
this  Paris. 

If  you  were  willing  to  wait  until  you  died,  you  could 
obtain  promises  of  ultimate  satisfaction  almost  any- 
where. Christian  priests,  Buddhist  priests,  Shinto 
priests,  Voodoo  priests — all  would  promise  you  some 
sort  of  paradise  or  Nirvana.  Even  the  strident  evan- 
gelist fished  with  a  baited  hook.  But  if  you  took  your 
satisfaction  now,  they  would  one  and  all  consign  you 
to  their  favourite  hells  or  else  to  nothingness — except 
this  arch-priestess  of  pleasure,  this  wanton  queen  of  the 
cities  of  the  world — this  Paris. 

Where  else  could  you  live  life?  Where  else  could  you 
forget  the  past,  laugh  at  the  future,  and  clasp  the  pres- 
ent in  your  arms  in  unashamed  abandonment?  Here  at 
least  the  devil  was  no  hypocrite.  And  where  else  could 
you  gratify  every  mood,  innocent  as  well  as  dangerous? 
Here  were  the  delights  of  company — art  talk,  literary 
talk,  society  talk;  here  were  the  delights  of  solitude, 
meditation,  and  work;  and  here  were  the  delights  of 

[166] 


BARRY  GORDON 

the  out-of-doors — the  sight  of  this  holiday  Paris  crowd, 
with  its  streams  of  carriages,  its  brilliant  women, driving 
out  to  be  seen — women  alone  till  night;  its  bourgeoisie 
— thin  husbands  and  fat  wives,  five  or  six  in  one  con- 
veyance, the  women  giggling  at  the  tight  fit ;  its  nonde- 
script, well-dressed  pairs,  with  their  subtle  preliminary 
flirtations,  the  sparkle  of  the  women's  eyes,  the  vivacious 
gestures  of  their  hands,  the  irony  of  their  mouths,  the 
chatter  and  laughter  as  they  drove  by ;  and  then  its  chil- 
dren— the  pale  Paris  children,  now  and  again  pausing 
in  their  play  and  watching  it  all  from  the  curb,  solemnly. 

As  he  glanced  at  the  children,  one  of  them  particu- 
larly attracted  his  attention.  She  was  a  dainty,  thin, 
fashionable  little  girl  dressed  in  starchy  white,  with  bare 
legs,  white  socks,  and  fluttering  light  blue  ribbons.  He 
wondered  what  the  child  was  thinking  of,  she  looked  so 
grave  as  she  watched  the  pageant. 

One  small  hand  hung  passive  at  her  side,  in  the  other 
she  absently  held  captive  by  a  long  thread  a  bright 
red  toy  balloon,  which,  bobbing  back  and  forth  high 
over  her  head,  seemed  very  incongruous  above  so  serious 
a  youngster. 

The  little  balloon  held  his  gaze  fascinated.  He 
looked  at  it  musingly,  reminiscently,  and  smiled. 

But  evidently  the  child  had  forgotten  its  existence. 
Her  thoughts  or  unthinking  wonderment  seemed  at 
last  wholly  to  withdraw  her  from  the  material  world. 

[167] 


BARRY  GORDON 

At  all  events  her  fingers  relaxed,  the  thread  slipped,  and 
the  balloon  jumped  upwards. 

The  little  girl,  at  once  all  child,  jumped  after  it, 
but  the  lost  thread  was  already  beyond  her  reach. 

The  spectator  on  the  chair  sprang  across  the  path 
and  clutched  at  it. 

"  Monsieur !  Monsieur ! "  cried  the  little  Parisian, 
standing  on  tip-toe  and  reaching  up  a  futile  hand. 
"  Vite !  Ah,  mon  pauvre  ballon !  " 

Too  late!  The  balloon,  caught  by  the  breeze,  went 
sailing  over  the  woods  high  into  the  sky — a  tiny  touch 
of  crimson. 

The  centre  of  an  amused  group,  they  stood  and 
watched  it,  he  with  a  queer  reminiscent  smile,  the  child 
at  first  too  bewildered  and  fascinated  by  its  fading  as- 
cent to  cry.  But  as  it  vanished  beyond  the  trees  she 
began  to  sob  silently.  He  felt  uncomfortable  and  took 
her  hand,  looking  about  for  her  nurse. 

"  Never  mind,"  he  said  half  to  himself.  "  It  always 
happens.  What  else  can  you  expect  ?  " 

He  spoke  in  English,  and  the  child,  not  understand- 
ing, grew  frightened.  She  drew  away  her  hand.  Then 
fortunately  her  fat  bonne,  all  gingham  and  cap  and 
streaming  ribbons,  came  billowing  to  her  and  took  her 
in  her  arms. 

"  Telle  est  la  vie,"  said  the  man,  smiling,  "  and  the 
ultimate  great  comforting  nurse  is  death." 

[168] 


BARRY  GORDON 

He  suddenly  heard  a  laugh  behind  him.  A  carriage 
had  stopped  at  the  sidewalk. 

"  Thank  Heaven ! "  said  a  woman's  voice.  "  Barry 
Gordon  at  last !  " 

He  turned  and  saw  Kitty  Van  Ness,  bright  as  the 
spring  day,  fashionable  beyond  the  dreams  of  dressmak- 
ers. She  was  leaning  forward  in  a  victoria,  smiling  at 
him  delightedly.  She  had  evidently  noticed  the  balloon 
episode  and  heard  his  last  comment. 

"  You  say  that's  life,  Barry  ?  Nonsense !  I  say  it 
isn't,"  she  contradicted,  greeting  him  with  her  clear 
blue  eyes.  "  At  least  not  always.  You  were  the  balloon 
that  blew  away,  and  now — you're  caught !  " 

She  laughed  with  open  pleasure,  and,  drawing  off  a 
suede  fawn-coloured  glove,  offered  him  a  bare  hand.  She 
did  it  so  naturally,  with  such  an  air  of  comradeship, 
that  the  fetching  little  breach  of  custom  would  have 
won  any  man. 

He  smiled  affectionately,  and,  clasping  the  warm  soft 
hand  a  moment  without  the  conventional  shake,  released 
it.  Then  a  shadow  crossed  his  face. 

"  Seven  years ! "  he  said.  "  It  seems  ages." 

"  Not  to  me,"  she  replied,  drawing  on  her  glove  again. 
"  It  did  ten  minutes  ago  before  I  saw  you,  but  now  it's 
only  a  day  or  two."  A  puzzled  expression  crossed  her 
face.  "  What  made  you  look  so  queer  as  you  watched 
that  balloon  go  sailing  off?  " 

[169] 


BARRY    GORDON 

The  look  she  mentioned  stole  again  into  his  face. 

"  I  was  remembering,"  he  said,  "  a  certain  very  large 
and  riotous  balloon,  a  crazy  adventure  I  once  had." 

Kitty,  sparkling  with  interest,  rested  her  hand  invit- 
ingly on  the  seat  beside  her. 

"  Come  and  drive  with  me  and  tell  me  about  it." 

He  stood  hesitant  a  moment,  one  foot  on  the  carriage 
step,  and  Kitty  tactfully  waited  without  urging  him. 

Judging  by  his  well-cut  English  travelling  suit,  he 
was  comfortably  off.  Since  she  knew  he  could  not  have 
yet  drawn  on  his  inheritance,  his  work,  as  they  had  all 
supposed,  must  have  yielded  him  a  fair  income.  But 
though  he  was  barely  twenty-seven  he  looked  well  over 
thirty.  Instead  of  the  mercurial,  imaginative,  impulsive 
youth  she  had  once  known,  she  saw  before  her  a  man 
whose  dark  eyes  seemed  deeper  set  and  colder;  a  man 
with  a  bronzed  weather-beaten  skin,  clean-shaven  save 
for  a  brown  moustache,  which  was  rather  coarse  and  not 
heavy  enough  to  hide  a  grim  look  about  his  sensitive 
mouth;  a  man,  in  fact,  somewhat  hardened  by  experi- 
ence. Yet  Kitty  noticed  that,  despite  this  hardness  and 
the  shadows  that  kept  crossing  his  face,  he  had  the 
grace  of  the  born  wanderer,  the  ease  of  an  acquired 
fatalism.  He  seemed,  in  short,  one  of  the  rarest  of  human 
anomalies — a  lovable  Stoic. 

"  You've  looked  life  in  the  face,"  she  said,  "  and  so 
have  I." 

[170] 


BARRY  GORDON 

The  words  were  spoken  so  gently,  with  so  much  com- 
prehension, and  yet  implied  such  a  careful  considera- 
tion of  his  feelings  because  she  had  feelings,  too,  that 
he  smiled  gratefully,  stepped  into  the  carriage,  and 
seated  himself  beside  her. 

Kitty  flushed  with  pleasure. 

"  Where  shall  we  drive  ?  " 

"  Anywhere,"  he  answered.  "  Around  the  world,  if 
you  like." 

"  But  that,"  laughed  Kitty,  with  the  faintest  hint  of 
a  sidelong  look  at  him,  "  would  necessitate  crossing  the 
Atlantic." 

"  Oh,  all  right,"  he  said,  with  a  trace  of  his  old  reck- 
lessness that  delighted  her.  "  Let's !  " 

She  looked  up  at  the  coachman. 

"  A  1'Amerique,"  she  ordered  whimsically. 

The  coachman  leaned  still  further  sideways  and  back- 
wards, doubting  his  ears. 

"  Oh,  anywhere,"  laughed  Kitty  with  a  gesture.  "  Up 
and  down." 

Though  in  her  haste  to  make  off  with  her  captive 
she  had  lapsed  to  her  mother  tongue,  this  proved  more 
intelligible  to  the  coachman,  and  Kitty's  triumphant 
drive  began. 

In  one  sense  she  already  regarded  it  in  this  light. 
Aside  from  her  friendly  pleasure  at  seeing  Barry,  she 
derived  a  very  feminine  satisfaction  at  being,  even  for 

[171] 


BARRY  GORDON 

an  hour,  the  companion  of  a  man  about  whose  name  so 
much  curiosity,  gossip,  and  mystery  had  centred  at 
home.  Others  might  conjecture  and  repeat  hearsay,  but 
she  would  speak  with  authority. 

"  Barry  Gordon  ?  Oh,  yes,  I  saw  him  myself — took  a 
long  drive  with  him  in  Paris." 

At  first  it  looked  as  if  this  would  be  her  only  reward. 
Long  they  drifted  up  and  down,  till  the  streams  of  car- 
riages and  pedestrians  floated  away  from  them  into  the 
heart  of  Paris,  and  the  green-gold  light  under  the  trees 
in  the  Bois  faded  into  purple  shadows,  and  the  skeleton 
tower  and  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  were  dream  structures 
built  of  the  dusk,  and  along  the  Champs  Elysces  the 
lights  of  houses  kindled  one  by  one,  like  eyes  opening 
and  watching  them. 

Yet  they  talked  the  trivial  talk  of  the  town,  their 
topics  the  long  black  gloves  of  Yvette  Guilbert,  the 
beauty  of  Cavalieri,  the  drooping  hair  of  Cleo  de 
Merode,  the  current  plays  and  songs,  the  races  at  Long- 
champs,  the  latest  international  marriage.  Kitty  felt 
disheartened.  There  was  nothing  for  it,  she  finally  de- 
cided, but  a  gentle  appeal.  After  a  long  silence  she  said : 

"  Barry,  why  should  we  fritter  away  this  drive?  I 
shall  never  forgive  myself !  " 

He  patted  her  hand. 

"  Never  mind,  Kitty.  I'll  forgive  you.  In  fact,  I 
couldn't  have  forgiven  you  if  you  hadn't  frittered  it 

[172] 


BARRY  GORDON 

away.  Do  you  know,"  he  observed  with  mock  gravity, 
"  you're  the  first  person  who  has  satisfactorily  inter- 
preted the  psychology  of  Yvette's  wail  and  Cleo's  fes- 
toons of  hair." 

Kitty  pouted. 

"  Do  you  think  Yvette's  wail  adequately  expresses 
the  situation  ?  " 

"Why  not?"  he  said,  shrugging.  "It's  ironical 
enough."  He  felt  for  his  cigarette-case.  "  It's  getting 
dark.  Do  you  mind?  " 

She  shook  her  head.  Then,  while  he  lighted  his  cigar- 
ette, she  stole  a  sidelong  glance  at  him.  As  the  match 
flared  before  his  face,  she  caught  the  tense,  hard  look 
of  a  Spartan  secretly  suffering  torments. 

"  Barry !  " 

"  Kitty." 

"  Let's  dine  together.  No,  I  won't  take  any  excuse. 
Please  do,  you  dear  old  Barry.  Here's  a  chance.  Let's 
make  the  most  of  it."  She  hesitated  a  moment,  then 
spoke  her  thoughts  impulsively  and  with  genuine  feel- 
ing. "  In  our  love-affairs  we've  both  been  losers.  We've 
both  been  beaten  by  life.  We've  both  got  the  worst  of  it. 
We're  both  in  the  same  boat — the  same  wrecked  boat. 
Then  suppose  we  try  something  else.  Suppose  we  try 
friendship,  you  and  I.  Let's  Barry — let's!  If  it  fails, 
we  can't  be  much  worse  off  than  we  are  now.  And  at 
least  we  shall  have  tested  another  of  life's  so-called 

[173] 


BARRY  GORDON 

privileges.  On  the  other  hand  if  it  succeeds — well — half 
a  loaf's  better  than  no  bread.  Come  and  dine  with  me 
and  talk  to  me — not  confidentially,  if  you  don't  feel  like 
it,  and  no  more  personally  than  you  want  to.  Come; 
we'll  talk  things  over  as  man  and  man ! " 

Her  plea  succeeded  because,  for  all  her  real  and 
almost  pathetic  sincerity,  she  tactfully  used  the  old 
Platonic  appeal,  the  indescribably  telling  appeal  of  a 
woman  offering  to  a  man  a  man's  companionship. 

"  All  right,  Kitty.  Where  shall  we  break  our  half 
loaf?  I  must  dress." 

She  demurred  at  this,  fearing  she  might  lose  him. 

"  Then  dine  with  me,"  he  suggested,  already  growing 
gayer.  "  We'll  go  across  the  river  to  the  older  Paris. 
The  Cafe  de  la  Paix  isn't  the  place  to  wear  clothes  like 
these  and  break  half  loaves.  Instead  of  champagne  and 
pates  I  vote  for  Burgundy  and  roast  duck.  That's  a 
better  beginning  for  a  solid  friendship." 

Kitty  nodded  in  radiant  consent.  Though  she  was  not 
altogether  fond  of  the  dingy  Quarter,  full-bodied  wines 
and  raw  game,  she  would  have  even  tackled  a  beef  at 
a  barbecue  had  a  beef  been  the  necessary  symbol  of  their 
new  friendship's  solidity. 

"Where,  Barry?" 

He  leaned  forward  to  the  coachman. 

"  Au  Cafe  Colombert ! "  he  ordered  with  an  eager- 
ness that  warmed  her. 

[174] 


CHAPTER    II 

DUCK    AND    BURGUNDY.       PLATONICS    IN    PARIS.       KITTY 
TACTFULLY   PUMPS  HER   CAPTIVE 

THE  Cafe  Colombert  was  almost  empty.  Too  ex- 
pensive for  the  average  student,  and  too  dingy 
for   rich   Americans,    it   was    patronised   only 
by  those  willing  to  dispense  with  mere  glitter  for  the 
sake  of  real  masterpieces  in  the  culinary  art. 

The  proprietor,  his  serious  face  mellowing  when  he 
saw  Barry,  led  them,  with  an  air  hospitably  gracious, 
to  a  corner  table.  This  fine  old  host  was  a  benevolent- 
looking  man,  with  a  kindly  dignity  by  no  means  unim- 
pressive ;  a  man  with  deep,  dreamy  blue  eyes  and  a  great 
mane  of  silvery  hair.  He  had  a  slight  stoop,  caused 
perhaps  by  years  of  invention  and  countless  crucial 
moments  when,  bending  over  the  concoctions  of  his 
chef,  he  himself  tasted  and  subtly  seasoned  them,  in- 
fusing into  them  the  personal  touch  that  had  won  him 
fame. 

He  received  Barry's  suggestions  with  grave  interest 
and  finally  with  the  pleased  nod  of  the  born  restaurant- 
keeper  who  recognises  nice  discrimination  in  a  guest. 

As  he  left  them  Barry  smiled. 
[175] 


BARRY  GORDON 

"  Frai^ois  knows,"  he  said,  "  that  in  true  art  simpli- 
city is  the  highest  achievement."  They  sociably  began 
nibbling  bread,  calling  it  their  half  loaf.  "  But  Fra^ois 
is  very  versatile,"  pursued  Barry.  "  He  can  cook  eggs 
two  hundred  and  nineteen  different  ways.  He  names 
them  after  his  notable  guests.  On  the  list  you'll  find 
royalty,  artists,  musicians,  authors,  all  more  or  less  well 
known." 

"  How  about  Barry  Gordon  ?  "  casually  asked  Kitty, 
drawing  off  her  fawn-coloured  gloves.  "  Has  Fra^ois 
included  Barry  Gordon  on  his  roll  of  fame?  "  She  shot 
a  quick  glance  at  him.  "  Ah,  he  has ! "  she  exclaimed. 
"  You  should  twirl  your  moustache  downwards  instead 
of  straight.  The  corners  of  your  mouth  betray  you." 

"  How  do  you  like  it?  "  he  asked  smiling. 

"What — your  moustache?  I  love  it!" 

"  No,"  he  laughed;  "  my  book." 

"  Oh,  you  mean  *  The  Adventures  of  a  Rolling 
Stone'?" 

"  Yes ;  that's  the  only  one  I've  written — or  ever  shall, 
probably." 

"  I  love  that,  too,"  she  answered.  "  How  thrilling  it 
is!  What  a  sale  it's  having!  I  didn't  dare  mention  it, 
though,  because  I  thought  it  might — "  She  hesitated. 

"  You  thought  it  might  be  a  sore  subject,"  he  con- 
cluded for  her.  "  The  criticisms  were  so  harsh." 

She  shrugged  carelessly. 

[176] 


BARRY    GORDON 

"  Your  book  offends  the  heavy  respectables.  You  must 
admit  your  adventures  have  been  decidedly  racy.  The 
chapter  on  hasheesh-eating  and  kief-smoking  was  bad 
enough,  but  that  was  a  Sunday-school  lesson  compared 
to  the  chapter  on  Moorish  harems !  "  She  laughingly 
shook  her  head  at  him.  "  Barry,  you're  a  case ! " 

The  waiter,  enough  of  an  adept  to  seem  almost  non- 
existent, had  served  the  consomme. 

"  You  seem  to  forget,"  said  Barry,  after  two  or  three 
spoonfuls,  "  the  rolling  stone  was  a  man  by  the  name 
of  Bob  Galloway." 

"  B.  G.,"  she  nodded.  *'  The  initials  were  significant." 
Then  again  she  plunged  into  deep  waters.  "  But  Mr. 
Beekman  does  maintain  that  the  story  is  imaginary, 
only  the  background  real.  He  calls  it  a  remarkable 
book." 

"  And  Mrs.  ?  ""  asked  Barry. 

"  Oh,  she  insists  it  bears  the  stamp  of  reality.  She 
calls  it  the  most  outrageous  book  she  has  ever  read." 

Kitty  lowered  her  glance,  and  drew  back  a  little  as 
the  waiter  removed  her  plate  and  unobtrusively  replaced 
it  with  another  on  which  lay  a  plump  red  mullet.  She 
glanced  up  at  Barry  under  her  lashes. 

"  Which  of  them  is  right  ?  "  she  asked  gently.  "  Is  it 
fiction  or  fact  ?  " 

He  absently  brushed  aside  the  crumbs  to  leave  a  free 
white  space  for  his  plate,  and  as  the  waiter  slipped  it 

[177] 


BARRY  GORDON 

before  him  he  looked  off  with  wandering  thoughts. 
Kitty,  covertly  studying  him,  saw  lights  and  shadows 
cross  his  eyes.  His  reminiscences  were  evidently  filled 
with  the  spirit  of  an  adventurous  liberty  somewhat 
marred  by  regret. 

"  Both,"  he  answered  at  last.  They  spent  a  moment 
extricating  the  mullets'  backbones.  Then  he  suddenly 
looked  up,  his  face  grew  tense,  and  a  question  forced 
itself  from  him  against  his  will.  "  How  do  other  people 
take  it?  How  does " 

Kitty's  pulses  quickened. 

"  One  can  only  conjecture,"  she  replied  without 
meeting  his  gaze ;  "  but  the  very  day  after  your  book 
appeared,  her  long  engagement  to  Tom,  which  I  fancy 
had  been  only  a  sort  of  private  understanding,  was  sud- 
denly announced ! " 

Barry  turned  quietly  to  the  waiter. 

"  Bring  the  wine,"  he  said.  As  he  turned  again  to 
Kitty  he  tried  to  smile.  "  She's  happy,  isn't  she?  " 

Kitty  raised  her  eyebrows,  shrugging. 

"  She  seems  passively  so — not  very."  Kitty  thought 
that  the  truth — the  "  not  very  " — would  please  him,  but 
evidently  it  did  not.  A  look  so  helpless  and  lost  dark- 
ened his  intense  face,  as  he  glanced  impatiently  for  the 
waiter,  that  Kitty,  without  understanding  her  sym- 
pathy, added  quickly :  "  Tom's  away,  you  know.  Per- 
haps that's  it." 

[178] 


BARRY    GORDON 

The  waiter  filled  their  glasses  with  the  rich  red  wine. 
Barry  slightly  inclined  his  head  towards  her  before  they 
drank.  Then,  as  he  sipped  the  Burgundy,  he  asked 
quietly : 

"  Where  has  he  gone? "  His  voice  fell.  "  Dear  old 
Tom ! " 

"  To  Morocco." 

"  To  Morocco !  "  he  exclaimed  in  surprise. 

"•Yes.  You  remember  Mr.  Beekman's  railroad 
project?  Surely  you've  read  in  the  newspapers  about 
the  Beekman-Roche  Syndicate  ?  " 

Barry  set  down  his  glass,  but  kept  the  stem  be- 
tween his  fingers,  and  still  glanced  into  the  wine's  red 
depths. 

"  I  think  I  did  see  something,  but  I'm  not  interested 
in  ruining  the  wonderful  expanses  of  Africa  with  rail- 
roads. Tom's  surveying,  I  suppose?  " 

"  Yes.  After  he  graduated,"  said  Kitty,  "  Mr.  Beek- 
man  gave  him  a  chance  at  construction-work  in  the 
West.  He  made  great  headway.  But  probably  you  al- 
ready know  all  this  from  letters  ?  " 

The  old  lost  look  crept  into  Barry's  eyes. 

"  No ;  I've  no  permanent  address,  you  see."  He  drank 
again.  "  Tell  me." 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  it,"  she  resumed,  butter- 
ing a  morsel  of  crust.  "  I  believe  the  Sultan  has  granted 
railroad  concessions  to  a  French  and  American  syndicate 

[179] 


BARRY  GORDON 

of  which  Mr.  Beekman  is  the  ruling  spirit.  About  a 
month  ago  he  sent  Tom  out  there  with  a  party  of  en- 
gineers." 

Barry  frowned. 

"  Morocco's  not  very  safe  at  present." 

"  No ;  but  this  may  mean  a  lot  to  Tom,  if  the  plan 
proves  practicable.  They  are  surveying  the  proposed 
route,  which  is  quite  long.  I'm  not  exactly  sure  where 
it  is.  It  runs  all  the  way  from  somewhere  to  somewhere 
else  along  the  south  coast  of  the  Mediterranean." 

Barry  emptied  his  glass,  and  nodded  as  he  refilled  it. 

"  Yes ;  from  Cape  Spartel  to  Oran."  He  laughed  bit- 
terly, and  she  saw  that  a  slight  change,  so  subtle  as  to 
be  almost  unnoticeable,  had  come  over  him.  She  could 
not  define  it  except  that  perhaps  his  dark  eyes  were,  if 
possible,  more  expressive  than  before.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  wine;  perhaps  it  was  the  deepening  of  their  com- 
panionship. 

"  Yes,"  he  repeated  bitterly,  "  from  Cape  Spartel 
to  Oran — and  the  country  will  be  ruined  by  American 
tourists  and  French  criminals !  Mr.  Beekman  means 
well.  Like  Cecil  Rhodes,  he  thinks  in  continents.  But  he 
isn't  personal;  he  isn't  human.  My  father  would  never 
have  planned  a  railroad  in  Morocco.  He  would  have 
done  as  I've  done.  He  would  have  lived  there  with  the 
natives.  He  would  have  ridden  their  horses  and  gone 
pig-sticking,  and  roved  through  the  country,  making 

[180] 


BARRY    GORDON 

friends."  He  shook  his  head  hopelessly,  repeating  once 
more  as  if  he  knew  the  route  and  loved  it:  "A  railroad 
from  Cape  Spartel  to  Oran !  Yes ;  and  the  pirate  boats 
of  the  Rifs,  and  the  mules  of  the  ancient  Berbers,  and 
the  thoroughbred  barbs  of  the  sheiks,  and  their  camels 
— their  rocking  *  ships  of  the  desert '  that  cruise  up 
there  from  the  south — what  about  them?  And  the  cara- 
vans of  the  wandering  families,  and  the  splendid  health, 
and  the  delicate  craftsmanship,  and  the  weird  music, 
and  the  sensuous  kief,  and  the  lazy  day-dreams  of  all 
the  people  along  that  wonderful  coast — what  about 
them?  Gradually  most  of  it  all  will  be  brushed  aside, 
and  what  isn't  brushed  aside  will  decay !  "  His  voice  was 
earnest — even  feverish.  "  Civilisation  ?  I've  seen  it  come, 
Kitty,  to  other  places,  and  I  tell  you  there's  no  curse 
that  falls  on  the.  child- races  like  the  curse  of  the  shriek- 
ing civilisation  of  locomotives !  " 

Kitty  saw  new  depths  in  him,  vaster  and  more  tragic 
than  she  had  seen  before. 

"  Then,  Barry,  do  you  mean  to  proclaim  yourself 
an  out-and-out  barbarian?  I'm  not.  I'm  hopelessly  civ- 
ilised." 

He  saw  Fra^ois  and  the  waiter  appearing  in  the 
doorway. 

"  There's  no  doubt  about  one  thing,"  he  exclaimed, 
regaining  his  friendly  smile.  "  Civilisation  bags  the 
game.  Here  come's  the  duck !  " 

[181] 


BARRY    GORDON 

Throughout  the  rest  of  their  repast  they  talked  more 
freely  and  intimately.  Drawn  out  by  her  comradeship, 
his  tongue  loosened  by  the  strong  wine,  Barry  not  only 
answered  her  tactfully  put  questions,  but  soon  began 
to  vouchsafe  information  and  confidences.  By  the  time 
the  salad  had  been  disposed  of  and  an  excellent  Camem- 
bert  cheese  lingeringly  eaten,  Kitty  had  learned  much. 
Piecing  together  this  and  that  with  the  adventures  so 
racily  sketched  in  his  book,  she  obtained  a  vivid  bird's- 
eye  impression  of  the  seven  years. 

The  scroll  was  rapidly  unrolled.  He  told  his  story 
with  such  a  light  touch,  such  a  gay  whimsicality,  that 
Kitty  only  now  and  then  had  a  glimpse  of  the  black 
despair  that  had  dogged  him  through  the  world  as  in- 
evitably as  his  own  shadow.  One  thing  only  he  withheld 
— his  memories  of  his  incessant  grinding  battles  with 
himself;  his  repeated  conflicts  against  drink  and  other 
temptations;  and  all  his  dire  failures  in  these  struggles. 
He  told  everything  else  as  impersonally  as  if  speaking 
of  another  man;  yet  the  mirage  he  conjured  up  was 
even  more  vivid  than  present  realities.  His  talk  was  even 
racier  than  his  book;  and  Kitty,  breathlessly  listening 
to  it,  followed  him  from  land  to  land  with  intense  in- 
terest, her  imaginative  faculty  feverishly  stimulated. 
Never  had  she  heard  so  enthralling  a  narrative. 


[182] 


CHAPTER    III 

BARRY'S  AMAZING  ADVENTURES.     THE  CAB  BACE. 

A  VOYAGE  TO  THE  STAKS.     AFRICAN  NIGHTS. 

NAOMI  THE  FAWN 

A  the  outset  Barry  had  worked  his  way  across 
the  Atlantic  on  a  cattle-ship,  and  had  spent 
a  month  on  the  Liverpool  wharves.  Then  to 
London,  where  he  arrived,  as  luck  would  have  it,  on 
Derby  Day.  He  drifted  with  the  thousands  to  the  great 
race.  Characteristically,  he  staked  his  all  on  a  horse 
that  pleased  his  eye.  The  horse  won.  That  gave  him  cash 
and  a  breathing  spell. 

One  night,  in  a  public-house,  he  fell  in  with  a  kindred 
spirit — one  Richard  Dashwood,  a  younger  son  with  a 
shilling  in  his  pocket  and  a  flash  of  inspiration  in  his 
eye. 

Suddenly  this  devil  of  a  fellow  had  decided  on  an 
astounding  move.  He  was  going  to  try  and  make  a 
living.  He  thought  it  would  be  "  ripping  to  rag  around 
London  "  driving  a  hansom  cab. 

Barry  took  to  the  plan  at  once,  and  split  up  his 
Derby  money  into  halves.  In  less  than  a  week  they  were 
London  cabbies.  His  book  contained  sketches  of  these 
adventures — the  story  of  the  eloping  couple,  the  mys- 

[183] 


BARRY    GORDON 

tery  of  the  fugitive  from  the  Russian  Embassy,  the 
mystery  of  the  foundling  left  in  his  cab. 

Then  came  comedy  and  calamity.  His  account  of  the 
disgraceful  and  exciting  climax  of  his  career  as  cabby 
had  made  two  continents  laugh. 

One  night  Dashwood  and  he  were  cruising  along  the 
Victoria  Embankment  on  their  hansoms,  and  again  in 
Dashwood's  eye  there  was  inspiration.  Their  purses  were 
fat  that  night,  and  their  humour  roistering. 

"  To  the  tune  of  a  sovereign,"  said  Richard,  "  from 
here  to  Charing  Cross — at  a  gallop ! "  said  he.  "  No 
American  trotting  race  for  me !  " 

"  Done !  "  cried  Barry,  catching  fire  at  once. 

Pitching  like  ships  at  sea,  the  hansoms  went  bumping 
and  rumbling  through  the  dark.  On  the  one  hand  the 
river,  with  its  yellow  lights  and  black  barges,  trailed 
by ;  on  the  other  the  big  hotels  and  houses  hurtled  past 
like  mountains  on  the  run.  The  night  was  full  of  flying 
horse-foam,  the  beat  of  hoofs,  the  crack  of  whips;  and 
each  driver,  tipsier  yet  with  the  motion,  kept  seeing  out 
of  the  tail  of  his  eye  the  light  of  the  other's  cab  jigging 
horribly. 

At  Waterloo  Bridge  they  were  neck  and  neck,  and  the 
crowd  was  running  after  them,  hooting  and  cheering. 
Ahead,  under  the  Charing  Cross  railway  bridge,  the 
Embankment  was  black  with  people,  waiting  for  them 
to  come. 

[184] 


BARRY  GORDON 

But  they  never  got  there.  The  police,  with  great  val- 
our but  a  lamentable  lack  of  sportsmanship,  interfered. 

The  distance  from  start  to  finish  was  about  a  mile, 
but  they  never  timed  it  in  minutes.  The  official  time  was 
ten  days,  and  England  won  the  money. 

This  adventure  gave  Barry  a  cue.  He  took  to  the 
race  track  and  steeple-chasing,  finally  riding  for  a  cer- 
tain Lord  B ,  whose  name  he  withheld  for  excellent 

reasons.   Wearing  Lord  B 's   colours,   he  came  in 

second  in  the  Grand  National.  The  Rajah  was  the  pick 
of  the  stable — a  great  horse  at  hurdles  and  water- jumps. 
But  Lord  B ,  it  seemed,  was  in  a  bad  way  finan- 
cially. Like  the  Rajah,  he  went  it  fast. 

Through  his  trainer  the  nobleman  gently  "  ap- 
proached "  Barry  Gordon.  If  on  a  coming  day  at  Ascot 
Barry  Gordon  would  pull  the  Rajah  and  throw  the 
race,  there  was  money  in  it. 

Barry's  reply  was  impulsive,  but  none  the  less  posi- 
tive for  that. 

"Tell  his  lordship,"  said  he,  "to  go  to  the  devil! 
Tell  him  the  Rajah  and  I  are  gentlemen !  " 

That  ended  Barry's  racing  career  in  England.  The 
trainer  spread  it  about  that  he  had  discharged  him,  and 
gave  a  reason  full  of  truth  with  a  twist  in  it.  He  said 
Gordon  wasn't  to  be  trusted. 

The  scene  then  changed  to  Paris,  where  Barry  in 
a  week  flung  away  the  savings  of  a  year. 

[185] 


BARRY    GORDON 

He  now  decided  to  have  a  try  at  art.  By  teaching  the 
son  of  a  French  baker  good  English,  and  the  daughter 
of  an  American  bartender  poor  French,  he  managed  to 
pay  for  a  dingy  room  in  the  Latin  Quarter.  When  he 
had  a  little  money  he  lived  like  a  fighting-cock  and 
loafed;  when  he  had  none  he  worked.  But  his  painting 
had  never  amounted  to  much.  He  never  applied  himself 
and  never  took  pains;  so  his  life  in  the  Quarter  ended 
ingloriously. 

One  day,  in  a  portrait-class,  they  were  painting  a 
model  made  up  as  Coquelin  in  "  Cyrano  de  Bergerac." 
The  others  produced  portraits  of  varying  excellence  or 
mediocrity;  but  Barry,  again  inconsequent,  thanks  to 
numerous  potations,  caught  only  one  impression — the 
nose.  He  began  with  the  nose  and  finished  with  the 
nose.  Without  the  slightest  suggestion  of  the  figure  or 
the  other  features,  he  projected  from  the  dark  back- 
ground an  enormous,  bodiless,  faceless  nose  that  almost 
filled  the  canvas. 

Fouchet,  in  whose  studio  he  was  working,  inspected 
his  masterpiece  gravely. 

"  Is  that  all  you  see?  " 

Barry  nodded. 

"  And  you  painted  this  gigantic  thing  seriously?  " 

"  As  seriously,"  said  Barry,  "  as  Cyrano  wore  it." 

"  Then  is  this  a  nose?  "  asked  Fouchet  in  mild  sur- 
prise. 

[186] 


BARRY    GORDON 

"  What  else  did  you  think  ?  "  demanded  Barry,  hotly. 

"  I  took  it,"  replied  Fouchet  without  a  smile,  "  for 
an  imaginary  sketch  of  Popocatepetl."  Then  the 
master  laid  his  hand  on  Barry's  shoulder.  "  Life  is 
short,"  he  said,  "  and  art  is  long,  but  this  nose  is  even 
longer ! " 

"  You  can't  judge  me  by  this,"  protested  the  student. 
"  This  is  a  mood ;  that's  all." 

"  A  mood?  I  thought  you  called  it  a  nose! " 

"  Look  here,  Monsieur  Fouchet,"  said  Barry  exas- 
perated, "  tell  me  what  you  think  of  me.  You  know  my 
work.  Shall  I  keep  on?  " 

Fouchet  stroked  his  pointed  beard  and  frowned  med- 
itatively at  the  canvas.  Finally,  a  smile  played  across 
the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

"  If  you  spend  about  ten  years,"  said  he,  "  trim- 
ming down  this  moody  nose,  by  no  more,  say,  than  one 
millimetre  each  year,  and  then  twenty  years  more,  filling 
in  the  face  and  figure,  you  may  prove  yourself  willing 
to  approach  art  with  the  serious  perseverance  it  de- 
mands." 

"  Then  adieu,  Monsieur  Fouchet ! "  said  Barry,  im- 
pulsively. 

The  following  morning  Barry  had  strayed  from  the 
Quarter,  aimless  and  vagrant.  Now  came  the  adven- 
ture so  vividly  recalled  to  his  mind  by  the  little  Parisian 
girl's  loss  of  her  aerial  toy. 

[187] 


BARRY    GORDON 

As  he  wandered  out  over  the  environs  of  Paris,  he 
came  by  chance  on  three  Frenchmen  in  a  bad  way.  They 
were  surrounded  by  a  small  crowd.  Two  of  them  sat  near 
a  gas-tank  and  a  huge  balloon  ready  filled.  On  the 
ground  lay  the  third,  just  recovering  from  partial  as- 
phyxiation, due  to  a  leak  in  the  inflating-pipe.  The  man 
was  too  weak  to  start.  His  friends  were  in  a  great  fluster 
of  impatience.  There  was  talk  of  a  wager  and  lack  of 
ballast.  They  sadly  needed  a  substitute. 

Barry  stepped  forward  out  of  the  crowd. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  he  asked. 

They  waved  vaguely  toward  the  south. 

The  indefiniteness  of  the  gesture  appealed  to  him. 
He  put  his  suggestion  in  a  way  tactfully  French  and 
ingratiating. 

"  The  earth."  said  he,  "  is  a  poor  place.  Take  me  with 
you  to  the  stars !  " 

The  aeronauts  looked  him  over,  and  hastily  whispered 
together.  In  the  end  they  accepted  his  offer.  They  in- 
vited him  into  the  car  with  them,  and  carried  him  along 
as  ballast. 

Never  was  a  madder  voyage.  They  got  caught  that 
day  in  a  northeast  storm,  and  something  went  wrong 
with  a  valve.  They  could  not  descend.  They  shot  up 
incredible  distances.  They  were  swallowed  in  oceans  of 
cloud.  Night  closed  around  them  and  they  tore  through 
a  black  infinity,  the  car  trailing  out  sideways  after  the 

[188] 


BARRY    GORDON 

gas-bag.  Save  where  they  raced  past  cloud-rifts,  there 
was  no  earth  and  no  sky. 

The  danger  looked  desperate. 

"  To  the  parachutes ! "  cried  one  of  the  Frenchmen. 
"  That's  better  than  bumping  into  the  moon !  " 

Unluckily  there  were  but  two  parachutes,  the  third 
having  been  carelessly  left  on  the  earth  with  the  disabled 
aeronaut. 

"  We'll  draw  lots,"  said  the  Frenchman  generously. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it!"  protested  Barry.  "Take  the 
parachutes,  please,  and  jump.  The  loss  of  your  weight 
will  shoot  me  up  but  a  mile  or  two,  and  what's  a  mile  or 
two  in  the  universe  ?  I  came  with  you  to  go  to  the  stars. 
Gentlemen,  I  insist !  " 

The  two  Frenchmen,  overjoyed  by  his  refusal,  em- 
braced him  with  such  demonstrative  gratitude  that  they 
all  nearly  toppled  into  space.  Then  abruptly  precipitant 
and  businesslike,  they  disembarked. 

He  saw  them  drop  straight  down  for  an  instant ;  then 
their  parachutes  opened,  and  they  went  sailing  earth- 
wards as  if  beneath  prodigious  umbrellas. 

He  knew  nothing  more.  The  balloon's  rise  must  have 
been  terrific.  In  the  rarefied  air  his  heart  gave  out,  and 
he  sank  to  the  bottom  of  the  basket  in  a  swoon. 

Barry's  awakening  was,  to  say  the  least,  sensational. 
As  he  woke  he  instinctively  kicked  his  feet  and  waved  his 
arms.  He  had  a  feeling  that  he  did  not  want  to  drop, 

[189] 


BARRY    GORDON 

but  to  rise.  The  motion  saved  him.  In  a  moment  he  was 
breathing  again,  and  now  became  a  creature  made  of 
nothing  but  lungs  and  arms  and  legs.  Then  slowly  his 
wits  returned  and  he  knew  he  was  in  water.  Swimming 
high,  he  looked  about  him.  Not  a  sign  of  the  balloon. 
On  the  one  hand,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see,  there  was 
nothing  but  a  calm  blue  surface,  on  the  other  a  dense 
forest. 

When  at  last  he  gained  the  shore  he  lay  down  on 
the  ground  in  the  sunlight,  and  as  life  slowly  flowed 
into  him  out  of  the  vast  warmth  only  one  thing  troubled 
his  mind.  He  wondered  how  many  miles  he  was  from  a 
cigarette. 

Of  course  he  knew  nothing  then  of  dates  or  places, 
but  later  he  learned  this :  He  had  gone  to  sleep  probably 
somewhere  over  Spain,  and  now  he  had  awakened  in 
Lake  Tchad,  in  the  heart  of  Africa! 

That  ended  the  adventure.  Never  again  did  he  see 
the  balloon.  The  great  gas-bag,  semi-collapsed,  had 
probably  dragged  itself  off  into  the  forest. 

After  that  Barry  had  wandered  through  Africa  for 
years,  his  long  nomadic  idleness  broken  once  by  a  mad 
raid  on  Somaliland  with  the  Abyssinians,  and  termi- 
nated by  a  somewhat  scandalous  and  romantic  ad- 
venture— the  adventure,  in  fact,  which  had  perhaps 
impelled  Muriel  to  announce  her  engagement  to  Tom. 

One  night,  disguised  as  a  Berber  peasant  woman,  he 
[190] 


BARRY    GORDON 

ventured  into  the  forbidden  city  of  Beni  Aloo,  high  in 
the  Rif  Mountains  on  the  north  coast.  The  disguise 
proved  effective.  He  was  really  half  Arab  by  this  time, 
and  knew  the  ways  and  lingos  of  many  peoples. 

The  pilgrimage  to  this  forbidden  city,  whence  no 
white  man  had  ever  returned  alive,  was  not  without  aim. 
Outside  the  walls  he  had  seen  a  vision  beautiful  as  a 
June  evening.  They  said  she  was  a  Tangier  Jewess 
married  to  a  mountain  sheik  whose  name  he  did  not 
learn.  The  called  her  Naomi  the  Fawn.  Her  veiled 
eyes  and  her  fleeting  whisper  were  full  of  a  light  allure- 
ment. 

On  that  summer  night  the  beggar-woman  at  Naomi's 
door  did  not  beg  in  vain.  Naomi  led  up  Barry  to  the 
house-top  and  there  unveiled.  Near  at  hand,  in  a  tree, 
a  nightingale  sang,  and  Naomi  drew  weird,  faint  music 
from  the  strings  of  a  gimbri.  The  air  was  laden  with 
intoxicating  odours,  and  Naomi's  soft,  large  eyes  were 
like  forest  lakes  at  midnight.  The  spell  of  the  African 
evening,  secret  and  magical,  stole  through  his  senses. 
Naomi,  too,  was  lost  in  it.  They  spent  enchanted  hours 
on  that  far  flat  roof  in  Beni  Aloo. 

But  there  came  a  terrible  moment.  The  two  shadows 
were  softly  approached  by  a  third  shadow,  and  sud- 
denly, in  the  dark,  there  was  a  glimmer  of  steel. 

Barry  and  Naomi  saw  it  and  sprang  up.  Then  began 
a  wild  dance  of  daggers — a  flight  through  the  house 

[191] 


BARRY  GORDON 

and  streets  to  the  open  country;  then  a  ride,  both  on 
one  horse,  and  the  town  after  them  in  full  cry. 

Luckily  for  Naomi,  he  got  her  safe  to  Tangier.  They 
parted  within  sight  of  it,  she  assuring  him  that  here 
she  could  find  refuge  with  her  family. 

That  seemed  to  be  the  end  of  the  adventure  in  Beni 
Aloo.  But  Barry  to  this  day  had  forebodings,  and  did 
not  feel  sure. 

Leaving  Morocco,  he  had  taken  steamer  to  Gibraltar 
and  thence  to  Naples.  At  Naples  he  had  fallen  low, 
morally  and  physically.  In  his  earlier  youth  he  had 
talked  of  searching  in  Herculaneum  for  the  lost  poems 
of  Sappho,  but  his  excavations  were  very  different  from 
the  dream.  He  got  down  to  the  rock  bottom  of  life,  and 
his  find  was  not  the  expected  poems.  He  found  only  sin 
and  pain. 

In  the  end  he  came  near  to  dying  of  a  fever,  and 
spent  weeks  in  hospital,  raving  and  hot  as  Vesuvius. 
When  at  last  he  regained  his  senses,  there  at  his  bed- 
side sat  Hicks.  This  old  friend,  it  seemed,  had  obtained 
through  his  father  a  modest  position  in  the  diplomatic 
service.  He  was  a  sort  of  special  agent,  or  messenger, 
constantly  employed  on  foreign  errands.  Happening 
now  to  be  at  Naples,  he  had  heard  of  Barry  in  the  hos- 
pital. 

Hicks,  dogged  and  staunch  as  ever,  was  immediately 
for  cabling  home. 

[192] 


BARRY  GORDON 

"  If  you  do,"  said  Barry,  "  I'll  leave  this  bed  this 
very  minute !  " — which  meant  death. 

So  Hicks,  sadly  surrendering,  sent  no  word.  Day  and 
night  he  sat  by  his  friend's  bedside  and  pulled  him 
through. 

And  that  was  the  end  of  the  seven  years. 


[193] 


CHAPTER    IV 

BARRY   BUYS  AN  EVENING   PAPER.       THE   NEWS   ON  THE 

FRONT    PAGE.       THE    COURSE    OF    HIS    LIFE    IS 

SUDDENLY    CHANGED 

BARRY  looked  across  at  Kitty.  They  were  linger- 
ing late  over  their  cognac. 
"  So  here  I  am,"  he  said  lightly,  raising  his 

tiny  glass  and  toasting  her.  "  There's  nothing  more  to 

tell." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it  all,  Barry?  " 

He  blew  several   rings  of  cigar-smoke  and  watched 

them    ascend.    Then   he   indicated   the   dissolving  rings 

with  a  gesture,  and  bitterly  smiled. 

"  Kitty,"  he  said,  "  that's  what  I  think  of  it.  That's 

all  it  amounts  to  in  the  end."  As  he  looked  across  at 

her  the  bitterness  left  him,  and  his  eyes  filled  with  a 

soft  light.  "  Kitty,  this  is  the  pleasantest  evening  I've 

spent  in  the  seven  years." 

She  smiled  at  him  in  a  comradely  way. 

"  I  think  I  can  say  the  same,  Barry,  and  yet — 

A  mist  gathered  in  her  eyes  and  she  found  hjerself 

blinking  in  spite  of  herself.  She  felt  inexpressibly  weary 

at  thought  of  his  wanderings,  sad  at  thought  of  his 

[194] 


BARRY  GORDON 

separation  from  Muriel.  He  caught  her  look,  and  said 
with  a  touch  of  loneliness : 

"  Forgive  me,  Kitty !  It  was  such  a  relief  to  tell  it  all 
— to  unburden  myself.  I  hope  I  haven't  kept  you  too 
late." 

"  No,  no,"  she  said  nervously,  pulling  on  her  gloves. 
"  It  isn't  that.  I  was  only  thinking  that  if  Muriel " 

He  rose  abruptly. 

"  Let  me  help  you  with  your  coat,  Kitty." 

This  was  the  first  time  she  had  actually  mentioned 
Muriel's  name,  and  the  tone  in  which  he  spoke  warned 
her  not  to  do  so  again. 

The  night  being  clear,  they  decided  to  walk  to 
her  apartment.  As  they  strolled  homewards  Barry  was 
very  silent,  and  she  began  to  fear  that  at  the  last 
she  had  openly  overstepped  the  bounds  of  a  mascu- 
line companionship.  She  tried  to  redeem  herself  by 
keeping  to  safer  talk.  As  they  passed  a  kiosk  near 
the  Pont  Neuf,  she  asked  him  to  buy  her  an  evening 
paper. 

"  I  made  a  bet,"  she  said,  "  that  the  Cid  would  win 
to-day  at  Longchamps — a  Paquin  dress  with  Catherine 
de  Lorinville.  You  remember — she  was  one  of  the  Mor- 
rison twins — used  to  be  a  pallid  lily.  Now  she's  an  arti- 
ficial orchid.  Poor  Kate!  Monsieur  le  comte,  her  hus- 
band, seems  to  prefer  rose-buds." 

Barry  remembered  the  day  when  the  Morrison  twins 
[195] 


BARRY  GORDON 

had  assisted  in  mixing  up  his  brain,  and  laughed  mirth- 
lessly. 

"  What  became  of  the  other  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  she  was  luckier,"  replied  Kitty  in  a  quieter  tone. 
"  She  died." 

"  And  what  became  of  Meade?  " 

"  Had  to  leave  town,"  said  Kitty  tersely.  "  New  York 
got  too  hot  for  him.  Played  a  shady  game  of  bridge." 

"And  what  about  Pierre  Loew?"  asked  Barry  in  a 
strained  voice.  "  Did  he  try  that  portrait?  " 

"  Yes,  but  he  failed  utterly.  She  can't  be  put  on  can- 
vas. He  said  he  could  no  more  paint  her  than  he  could 
paint  a  strain  of  music." 

Barry  tossed  a  coin  to  the  news-vender  and  picked 
up  an  evening  paper. 

"  Let's  see  if  there's  going  to  be  fighting  anywhere," 
he  said  abruptly. 

He  glanced  through  the  main  columns  by  the  light 
from  the  kiosk.  Kitty  slipped  a  hand  through  his 
arm. 

"  You  savage ! "  she  laughed.  "  Look  for  the  races. 
A  Paquin  dress  is  more  important  than  all  the  wars  in 
Christendom ! " 

He  did  not  smile.  She  saw  his  face,  under  the  kiosk 
lamp,  go  white  as  death.  He  was  staring  at  a  cable- 
despatch  on  the  front  page. 

"  My  God !  "  he  ejaculated. 
[196] 


BARRY  GORDON 

She  bent  forward  over  the  paper,  straining  her  eyes. 
The  cable  was  from  Tangier.  Translated  it  read  as 
follows : 

Mr.  Thomas  Gordon,  one  of  the  engineers  sent  from  New  York 
to  Morocco  by  the  Beekman-Roche  Syndicate,  has  been  mur- 
dered. 

Mr.  Gordon  had  been  missing  for  several  days,  a  fact  until  now 
withheld  for  international  reasons.  Many  details  are  lacking. 
It  is  said  that  the  young  American  had  ridden  out  alone  to 
prospect  for  a  proposed  bridge  across  a  ravine  beyond  Ceuta. 
When  days  went  by  and  he  did  not  report  his  companions  grew 
anxious  and,  after  searching  parties  had  returned  without  news, 
appealed  to  the  Sultan. 

It  was  feared  Mr.  Gordon  had  been  taken  captive  by  Ali 
Hamed,  the  Moorish  Pretender,  either  to  be  held  for  ransom 
or  because  of  Ali's  fanatical  antagonism  to  the  railroad  pro- 
ject. 

But  this  was  not  the  case.  This  morning  Mr.  Gordon's  body, 
shot  through  the  heart,  was  found  in  the  mountains  by  the 
Sultan's  troops. 

The  soldiers  at  once  buried  the  body  where  they  found  it. 

An  hour  later  the  murderer,  a  common  bandit,  who  confessed 
to  having  shot  and  robbed  the  foreigner,  was  caught  by  the 
Moorish  soldiers.  He  has  already  been  executed. 

There  is  not  a  little  feeling  against  the  native  troops  because 
they  did  not  bring  back  Mr.  Gordon's  remains  to  his  friends  in 
Tangier.  Their  excuse  is  the  distance,  the  difficulties  of  trans- 
portation through  the  mountain  fastnesses,  and  the  defilement  of 
carrying  a  Christian  body. 

While  they  read  the  despatch  Kitty  felt  Barry's  arm 
[197] 


BARRY    GORDON 

grow  rigid.  He  was  vaguely  conscious  that  she  kept 
gripping  it  with  spasmodic  contractions  of  her  fingers. 
Then,  as  they  finished  the  cable,  his  arm  and  her  hand 
relaxed  and  parted. 

Mechanically  he  folded  the  paper  and  stuck  it  in  his 
pocket.  They  crossed  the  bridge  without  speaking.  Once 
or  twice  she  heard  him  groan  almost  inaudibly,  evi- 
dently in  profound  grief. 

As  they  came  again  into  the  bright  crowded  streets 
he  seemed  suddenly  to  take  heart.  His  step,  which  at 
first  had  been  heavy  and  slow,  became  lighter  and 
quicker. 

"  Details  are  lacking ;  details  are  lacking,"  he  kept 
repeating  dazedly  to  himself.  "  That's  a  significant  fact. 
Details  are  lacking — and  the  details  that  are  not  lack- 
ing don't  ring  true !  " 

He  suddenly  turned  and  stood  facing  her,  deeply  ex- 
cited. 

"  I  don't  believe  it !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  don't — I  won't 
believe  Tom's  dead !  I  know  those  people — know  them 
well.  They  hate  foreigners,  and  yet  they  fear  them. 
Somehow  they're  lying!  I  know  they're  lying!  That  re- 
port they  brought  to  Tangier  about  the  burial — the  ap- 
prehension of  the  criminal  within  an  hour,  the  execution 
at  once — it's  all  a  blind.  Somehow  it's  all  a  blind.  I 
won't  believe  Tom's  dead !  " 

Kitty  was  sobbing  silently,  heart-brokenly,  and  for  a 
[198] 


BARRY    GORDON 

moment  could  not  answer.  As  they  walked  on  again  she 
said  at  last : 

"  Barry,  I  loved  him ! " 

Barry  was  too  preoccupied  to  notice  the  fall  in  her 
voice.  He  thought  she  meant  as  a  friend. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  everyone  loved  Tom." 

Suddenly  she  saw  him  straighten  up  with  a  look  of 
activity  and  resolve. 

"  I  shall  take  the  first  Madrid  express,"  he  said, 
"  and  keep  straight  on  to  Gibraltar.  A  few  hours  after 
that  I  shall  be  in  Tangier." 

At  the  door  of  her  apartment  she  turned  to  him  and 
firmly,  eloquently  grasped  his  hand. 

"  God  give  you  luck,  Barry." 

That  night  he  sat  till  daylight  alone  in  the  corner 
of  a  cafe,  reading  and  re-reading  the  despatch  from 
Tangier. 


His  search  in  Morocco  was  one  of  the  darkest  chap- 
ters of  Barry's  life.  In  spite  of  him,  old  hopes  re-awoke, 
and  he  could  not  crush  them  out.  Because  of  these  hopes 
he  felt  so  disloyal  to  his  brother,  so  ashamed  of  thinking 
of  anything  but  the  loss  of  Tom,  that  his  inherited  curse 
came  back  upon  him.  Just  when  he  should  have  set  forth 
with  every  faculty  alert  he  succumbed  again  to  the  old 
temptation.  He  drank  hard. 

[199] 


BARRY  GORDON 

Yet  he  sought  for  the  truth  about  Tom  with  grim 
perseverance.  Desperately  he  tried  to  get  at  detailed 
facts  and  prove  Tom's  death  a  lie,  but  in  vain.  At  last 
he  was  forced  to  accept  the  story  which  all  the  world 
believed.  The  fact  seemed  so  very  plain,  so  indisputably 
plain. 

A  month  later,  worn  out,  he  returned  to  New  York 
and  drifted  into  the  Beekman  house  one  evening  as 
casually  as  if  he  had  never  been  away. 


[200] 


BOOK    V 
NEMESIS 


CHAPTER    I 

TIME    AND    PROPINQUITY    SMOOTH    THE    WAY,    BUT    MKS. 
BEEKMAN  BLOCKS  IT,  AND  BARRY  HAS  SECRET  MIS- 
GIVINGS.     KITTY  AGAIN  TO  THE   RESCUE 

MRS.  BEEKMAN,  seated  at  her  desk,  looked 
across  at  her  husband  with  troubled  eyes.  He 
sat  in  his  armchair  trying  to  lose  himself  in 
a  complicated  game  of  patience.  She  noticed  that  he 
was  dealing  very  slowly,  building  very  carefully  on  the 
proper  cards,  considering  each  play  with  a  forced 
attention  which  suggested  an  attempt  to  rivet  his 
thoughts  on  this  idle  recreation  and  save  himself  from 
the  far  more  serious  problem  that  now  disturbed  their 
lives. 

Mrs.  Beekman  frowned  and  shifted  restlessly.  His 
shallow  pastime  vexed  her  soul. 

"  I  really  think,"  she  said  at  last,  "  your  game  of 
solitaire  is  almost  a  sin — especially  in  the  morning." 
Her  voice  was  querulous,  solicitous.  "  You're  not  grow- 
ing old,  are  you?  " 

The  lines  on  his  forehead  deepened.  He  drew  himself 
up  more  alertly  in  his  chair. 

"  To-day  is  a  holiday,"  he  replied  impassively.  "  It 
[203] 


BARRY  GORDON 

seems  to  me  that  as  long  as  a  man  is  capable  of  enjoy- 
ing his  holidays  irresponsibly  he's  still  young." 

Mrs.  Beekman  sighed,  and  resumed  the  staving  off  of 
age  in  her  own  peculiar  way.  In  this  defensive  process 
the  newer  the  fad  the  better.  As  long  as  theories  came 
thick  and  fast  why  should  her  mind  deteriorate? 

With  the  acquired  hard  eagerness  of  a  woman  seek- 
ing a  barren  refuge,  she  drew  out  from  under  her  desk 
a  tall,  cylindrical  brass  instrument  which  she  placed 
before  her  and  impatiently  adjusted.  Presently  she  took 
from  one  of  her  desk  drawers  a  number  of  slides,  and, 
fitting  one  after  another  into  place,  bent  close  to  the 
instrument.  Closing  one  eye,  she  peered  through  the  cyl- 
inder with  the  other.  As  this  extraordinary  investigation 
progressed,  she  grew  more  and  more  fascinated  and  hor- 
rified. At  last  she  began  muttering  to  herself,  "  Awful ! 
Frightful!  Hideous!"  and  other  ejaculations  indicative 
of  pleased  disgust. 

Mr.  Beekman,  his  game  spoiled  by  these  disturbing 
exclamations,  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  stared  at 
her. 

"  What  on  earth  are  you  doing  ?  "  he  asked  in  be- 
wilderment. "  What  is  that  thing?  " 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  feverish  enthusiasm. 

"  I've  joined  a  society  for  promoting  the  use  of  the 
microscope.  Our  object  is  to  make  the  masses  familiar 
with  germs — to  educate  their  pathologic  sense.  We 

[204] 


BARRY    GORDON 

hope  to  popularise  the  microscope — to  have  one  in  every 
home — in  every  tenement.  Then,  before  the  poor  pay 
for  their  food,  they  will  investigate  it.  Thus  the  dealers, 
even  in  the  slums,  will  be  forced  to  supply  their  cus- 
tomers with  purer  meat,  milk,  and  vegetables." 

Mr.  Beekman  smiled  and  gathered  up  his  cards. 

"  Once  a  Bostonian,  always  a  Bostonian,"  he  said 
dryly,  and,  bored  by  his  game,  put  the  pack  in  the  box. 

Regretfully  he  looked  across  at  his  wife.  It  was  sad 
to  think  how  steadily  they  had  drifted  apart ;  how  he 
had  let  business  take  him  from  her;  how  she  had  sought 
refuge  in  these  fads. 

"  Sometimes,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I  deplore  the  very 
existence  of  money,  science,  and  everything  else  that 
tends  to  harden  the  human  heart ! " 

Mrs.  Beekman  bit  her  lip. 

"  If  the  human  heart  stays  soft,"  she  said  bitterly, 
"  it  finds  itself  at  the  mercy  of  every  cruelty  in  life !  " 

Suddenly  all  her  recent  anxieties  crowded  in  on  her. 
She  rose,  crossed  the  library,  and  confronted  him. 

"  Speaking  of  the  human  heart,"  she  said,  "  how 
about  Muriel  and  Barry  ?  "  Her  face  assumed  a  look  al- 
most virulently  maternal.  "  This  is  a  question,"  she  said, 
"  we  have  got  to  deal  with.  Day  after  day,  week  after 
week,  month  after  month,  we've  put  it  off,  till  now  the 
time  has  come  when,  if  we  put  it  off  any  longer,  we 
shall  be  too  late  to  save  her.  It  is  certainly  your  place 

[205] 


BARRY  GORDON 

to  take  a  stand,  because  if  she  loves  him  it's  your  fault. 
For  the  past  two  years,  contrary  to  my  wishes,  you've 
permitted  him  to  come  here.  Ever  since  he  returned 
from  abroad  you  have  let  him  see  her  almost  every  day 
and  every  evening.  They're  always  together.  Of  course 
you  know  the  inevitable  result !  " 

Mr.  Beekman  nodded  dumbly. 

"  But  I  won't  believe  it ! "  she  exclaimed  in  vehement 
protest.  "  I  will  not  believe  she  loves  him!  Muriel  loved 
Tom.  If  Tom  had  lived  she  would  have  married  him." 
As  she  spoke  of  Tom,  her  cold  blue  eyes  grew  moist. 
They  looked  like  ice  slowly  melting  on  the  surface. 
"  How  I  wish  that  might  have  been ! " 

Mr.  Beekman's  keen  glance,  fixed  on  the  bare  green 
baize  of  the  card-table,  seemed  to  be  piercing  the  past. 

"  No,"  he  interposed ;  "  she  admired  Tom,  but  she 
never  really  loved  him.  In  the  end  I  believe  she  would 
have  asked  him  to  let  her  break  it.  I  believe  she  was 
beginning  to  realise  her  mistake." 

Mrs.  Beekman  made  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"  I  wish  she  would  realise  this  mistake.  If  she  marries 
Barry  she'll  have  to  divorce  him  before  the  year's  out. 
Do  we  want  to  see  our  daughter  a  divorced  woman  like 
your  cousin,  Kitty  Van  Ness  ?  " 

Mr.  Beekman  was  still  scrutinising  the  past,  as  if  he 
had  neatly  set  it  out  like  his  cards  on  the  baize-covered 
table. 

[206] 


BARRY    GORDON 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "  I  believe  Kitty  loved 
Tom." 

"  Yes ;  but  he  was  far  too  good  for  her.  He  was  almost 
good  enough  for  Muriel.  Barry  isn't,  though.  What  is 
he?  Nothing  but  a  man  about  town,  an  idler,  a  spend- 
thrift. What  does  he  do?  Nothing.  He  lives  at  the 
club,  wastes  his  money  on  his  friends,  his  pleasure,  his 
wine." 

Mr.  Beekman's  reply  to  this  was  sharp  and  severe. 

"You  are  utterly  unjust!"  he  said.  "Barry  is  gen- 
erous to  a  fault — that's  all.  As  to  the  wine,  ever  since 
he  came  back  to  us,  he  has  not  touched  a  single  drop 
of  anything  intoxicating.  Under  Muriel's  influence 
Barry  is  a  different  man." 

Mrs.  Beekman  lifted  her  eyebrows  and  regarded  him 
with  frigid  indignation. 

"  Then  are  you  going  to  let  them  marry  ?  " 

He  shifted  uneasily  and  frowned. 

"  It  is  not  a  question  of  letting  them,"  he  said.  "  They 
are  not  boy  and  girl ;  they  are  man  and  woman.  If  they 
decide  to  marry  they  will  do  so.  Barry  has  candidly 
told  me  this.  He  says  there  are  reasons  why  he  cannot 
ask  Muriel.  I  suppose  he  means  his  tendencies.  But, 
aside  from  that,  he  said  if  Muriel  would  have  him  noth- 
ing could  stand  between  them.  As  politely  as  possible 
he  implied  that  no  one  but  Muriel  would  be  consulted. 
He  even  said  outright,  '  If  Mrs.  Beekman  goes  too  far 

[207] 


BARRY  GOUDON 

in  her  opposition  she  may  regret  it.  If  I  have  to,  I'll 
carry  Muriel  off ! ' 

Mrs.  Beekman's  face  was  pallid  with  anger. 

"  As  long  as  there's  a  drop  of  blood  in  my  body," 
she  exclaimed,  "  he  shan't  do  that ! " 

She  drifted  to  the  window,  and  stared  out  across  the 
avenue.  It  was  a  day  late  in  the  spring,  and  the  park 
was  like  a  green  oasis  in  the  barren  town.  But  Mrs. 
Beekman's  eyes  were  unseeing.  Long  she  stood  there 
in  blind,  mute  rebellion. 

At  this  juncture,  as  luck  would  have  it,  Kitty  Van 
Ness  dropped  in  from  her  morning  stroll,  and,  always 
breezily  informal  with  her  cousins,  appeared  unan- 
nounced in  the  library. 

As  Mr.  Beekman  rose  and  greeted  Kitty,  his  wife 
turned  from  the  window.  She  bowed,  frowning.  She  was 
in  no  mood  for  pleasantries.  To  her,  Kitty's  costume, 
parasol  and  gloves — all  of  a  delicate  ecru  shade,  in  tune 
with  her  flaxen  hair  and  the  spring  morning — instead 
of  conveying  a  satisfying  impression,  seemed  merely  a 
vague  blur. 

Kitty  felt  the  strain  of  the  moment. 

"  I'm  afraid  I'm  intruding,"  she  said  artlessly.  "  Per- 
haps I'd  better  go." 

Mrs.  Beekman  was  too  abstracted  even  to  object  to 
her  presence. 

"  No,  Kitty ;  it's  nothing  private.  What  I  have  to 
[208] 


BARRY  GORDON 

say  I  would  say  to  all  the  world."  She  turned  at  once 
to  her  husband.  "  I've  made  up  my  mind,"  she  declared 
harshly.  "  If  you  intend  to  let  things  go  from  bad  to 
worse,  I  don't!  I  shall  take  Muriel  abroad  with  me  on 
the  earliest  possible  steamer.  I  shall  take  her  this  very 
week.  I  shall  not  leave  Barry  Gordon  the  slightest  trace 
of  us — the  slightest  clue  to  our  whereabouts.  If  need 
be,  I  shall  keep  Muriel  away  from  him  for  years ! " 

Mr.  Beekman  nodded  calmly,  without  surprise  or  dis- 
sent. His  thoughts  had  been  as  quick  as  her  words. 

"  For  my  part,  I've  always  had  faith  in  Barry,"  he 
said.  "  I  believe  if  Muriel  married  him  he  would  never 
go  wrong.  He  would  develop  splendidly.  If  there's  any 
saving  power  at  all  in  a  great  love,  I  see  little  risk  in 
this  match.  But  do  as  you  say,  by  all  means.  Put  them 
to  the  test  by  a  Igng  separation.  If  you  succeed  in  break- 
ing it  off  so  easily,  well  and  good.  You'll  prove  their 
love  weak,  and  I  shall  be  the  first  to  thank  you  for  res- 
cuing them  from  it." 

Mrs.  Beekman  bowed  coldly. 

"  Then  come  at  once,  please,  and  tell  Muriel.  At  any 
moment  Barry  will  be  here.  She's  dressing  to  go  out 
to  lunch  with  him.  Before  she  sees  him  I  wish  to  tell 
her  my  decision." 

Mr.  Beekman  smiled  with  polite  irony. 

"  By  all  means  do  so ;  but  the  decision  is  yours,  not 
mine.  So  I  fear  you'll  have  to  shoulder  the  responsibility 

[209] 


BARRY  GORDON 

alone."  He  went  to  the  door.  "  I  have  an  engagement 
at  the  club  this  morning,"  he  said  quietly.  He  bowed 
to  Kitty  Van  Ness.  "  If  you'll  forgive  me,  Kitty." 

As  he  left  them,  Mrs.  Beekman  drew  a  deep  sigh  and 
turned  to  Kitty  wearily. 

"  It  seems  rude  for  us  both  to  leave  you,"  she  said ; 
"  but  as  you're  one  of  the  family  you'll  understand. 
I  feel  it's  my  duty  to  tell  Muriel  without  delay.  Won't 
you  wait  ?  " 

Kitty,  swinging  her  parasol,  sauntered  to  the  win- 
dow. 

"Yes,  perhaps  I  will,"  she  said  lightly.  "Don't 
bother  about  me." 

Left  alone,  Kitty  stood  there  many  minutes  looking 
out.  The  park  was  full  of  holiday-makers  from  meaner 
quarters  of  the  town.  Out  in  the  sunshine  children  were 
busy  with  games,  and  over  the  clear  blue  water  of  the 
pond  toy  sailboats  gaily  voyaged.  In  the  shade  of  the 
trees  the  parents  idled  the  day  away,  glad  of  rest  and 
air. 

Kitty  kept  glancing  watchfully  down  the  avenue. 

Suddenly  she  turned,  crossed  the  library,  and  has- 
tened down-stairs. 

She  met  Barry  outside  in  the  vestibule,  before  he  had 
rung.  As  she  greeted  him,  her  brightness  was  unusually 
clouded;  there  was  honest,  affectionate  trouble  in  her 
warm  blue  eyes.  She  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

[210] 


BARRY  GORDON 

"  Barry,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  if  you  hope  ever 
to  be  happy,  grasp  happiness  now !  " 

A  shadow  crossed  his  face,  but  he  was  little  disturbed. 
She  had  urged  him  similarly  many  times.  He  shook  his 
head. 

"  No,  Kitty ;  even  if  Muriel's  willing  I  can't  do  -  it. 
I've  often  told  you  why." 

"  Yes ;  but  that  possibility,"  she  replied  sadly,  "  is 
too  remote,  I'm  afraid,  to  be  considered." 

"  No,  it  is  not.  I  tell  you  I've  never  been  wholly  con- 
vinced. I've  a  feeling  that  even  now " 

"  A  mere  feeling,"  broke  in  Kitty,  "  that  preys  on 
you  and  makes  you  dwell  on  it.  Unfortunately  there's 
nothing  to  warrant  it.  The  facts  are  all  too  clear." 

He  shook  his  head.  "  Those  people  can  make  black 
look  like  white." 

"  But  you  went  1;here,"  she  persisted  uneasily.  "  You 
found  his  drawing-instruments,  his  clothes,  even  his 
grave.  You  did  all  you  could." 

She  saw  him  flinch  and  bite  his  lip. 

"  Yes,  that's  true.  I  did !  I  tried  hard  to  get  at  the 
facts.  God  knows  I  tried  hard!  But  the  ungovernable 
hopes  I  had  seemed  so  unworthy  of  me  that  I  drank." 
He  passed  a  hand  wearily  across  his  eyes.  "  The  less 
said  about  that  search  the  better,  Kitty.  The  fact  re- 
mains, I  can't  in  honour  ask  her — unless  I  tell  her  of 
my  doubts  and  give  her  a  chance  to  wait  for  Tom." 

[211] 


BARRY    GORDON 

Kitty  smiled  at  him  ironically. 

"  It's  queer  how  you  black  sheep  baa  about  honour ! 
What's  the  use  of  telling  her?  It  will  only  make  her  un- 
happy. Besides,  there's  nothing  to  tell,  except  a  lot  of 
vague  imaginings." 

He  shrugged  helplessly. 

"  Vague?  Yes,  but  you're  a  woman  and  should  ap- 
preciate the  disquieting  effect  of  a  strong  presentiment. 
I  admit  my  feeling  is  unreasonable,  but  it  is  so  insistent 
that  what  do  you  think  I've  done?  I've  actually  written 
to  Hicks  at  the  State  Department  in  Washington,  ask- 
ing him  to  keep  in  constant  touch  with  affairs  in  Mo- 
rocco. If  anything  suspicious  comes  to  light,  he's  prom- 
ised to  let  me  know  at  once." 

Barry's  eyes  narrowed.  His  voice  fell  lower.  It  sound- 
ed strained  and  unnatural. 

"  Suppose  that  happens,  Kitty !  Suppose  Tom  rises 
from  the  dead.  And  suppose  her  dead  love  for  him  rises, 
too,  and  she  finds  herself  tied  to  me."  A  spasm  of  pain 
crossed  his  face,  a  tremor  ran  through  him.  Then 
again  he  shook  his  head.  "  No,  Kitty,  no !  You  see  I 
can't  do  it.  Muriel's  happiness  means  more  to  me  than 
anything  in  life." 

Kitty  had  withheld  the  needed  stab  until  he  had  had 
his  say.  Now  suddenly  she  delivered  it  with  swift  force. 

"  Barry,  here's  news.  Muriel  goes  abroad  this  very 
week.  Her  mother  has  decided  to  take  her  away  from 


BARRY  GORDON 

you.  They  will  stay  for  years.  No  address !  No  clue ! " 
Kitty  laughed.  "  Now  how  do  you  feel  about  it?  " 

Barry  stood  stunned.  It  was  hard  to  believe  at  first. 
For  two  whole  years  the  course  of  life  had  run  so  smooth. 
He  could  have  lived  a  long  time  as  he  had  been  living. 
Muriel's  regained  companionship  had  meant  so  much 
to  him  that  merely  to  be  with  her  had  seemed  to  be 
enough.  But  now,  if  they  were  going  to  take  her  away, 
he  would  be  again  alone,  utterly  alone.  Once  more  the 
world  would  turn  to  a  desert,  bounded  only  by  the  sun- 
rise and  the  sunset.  Once  more  he  would  be  a  vagrant, 
a  moving  shadow  on  the  face  of  it,  a  ghost  lost  in  the 
void. 

Suddenly  Kitty  saw  the  blood  rush  to  his  temples, 
saw  the  fire  of  reckless  impulse  flare  in  his  eyes.  Then 
she  knew  her  stab  had  told. 

She  gave  him  her  hand  in  parting. 

"  What  will  you  do  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  replied  feverishly.  "  Kitty,  I 
don't  know !  " 

She  pressed  his  hand. 

"  Good  luck,  Barry,"  she  said  wistfully. 

Then  with  a  curt  little  nod  of  farewell,  she  opened 
her  parasol  and  strolled  away  from  him  down  the 
avenue. 

Blind  with  impatience,  he  rang  the  bell. 


CHAPTER    II 

BARRY    AND    MURIEL.       THE    MAN    IN    THE    TRAIN. 
THE  FATES  SPIN   FAST 

BARRY,  waiting  for  Muriel  in  the  library,  paced 
restlessly  back  and  forth. 
Would  she  have  him? 

The  question  set  his  thoughts  at  work  for  a  clue  to 
her  feeling,  but  in  vain. 

She  was  not  the  mere  will-o'-the-wisp  of  old.  On 
his  return  two  years  back  he  had  at  once  found  her 
more  tangible.  The  bright  haze  of  dream-stuff  had 
dissolved,  revealing  to  him  a  vivid,  sunlit  woman.  Yet 
she  was  still  slender  and  strikingly  piquant,  her  foot- 
step light,  her  moods  variable. 

Sometimes  her  changeful  eyes  seemed  sad,  and  in  her 
voice  there  lingered  a  quality  as  of  shadows.  But  he 
could  not  tell  if  this  outer  wistfulness  hid  a  deeper 
mourning,  or  if  she  really  felt  no  greater  grief,  and, 
being  so  true,  could  not  exaggerate  by  a  single  tear 
the  depth  of  her  sorrow. 

They  spoke  freely  of  Tom,  but  with  less  and  less  fre- 
quency. Both  healthy,  and  with  the  long  reaches  of  the 
future  still  before  them,  their  companionship  filled  their 

[214] 


BARRY    GORDON 

lives.  But  he  feared  she  granted  him  this  companionship 
so  generously  merely  because  she  relied  on  him  to  un- 
derstand that  beyond  it  there  could  be  no  tie  between 
them.  In  a  word,  perhaps  she  gave  him  so  much  because 
she  had  so  little  to  give  him. 

The  old  shadows  passed  across  his  face.  What  dif- 
ference did  it  make?  Even  if  she  did  love  him,  he 
could  not  ask  her. 

As  he  paced  to  and  fro  his  eye  was  caught  by  the 
shining  brass  microscope  on  Mrs.  Beekman's  desk. 
The  thing  looked  so  out  of  place  amid  the  large  com- 
fort of  this  library  that  he  stopped  and  glanced  at 
it,  glad  of  anything  external  on  which  to  focus  his 
mind. 

He  smiled  with  bitter  irony.  The  thing  started  an 
unpleasant  train  of  thought.  It  suggested  bacilli  and 
disease  and  all  things  loathsome  to  a  man  with  his 
splendid  constitution.  And  disease  suggested  evil. 

Even  in  crucial  moments  Barry  had  a  way  of  think- 
ing of  life  in  the  large.  He  did  so  now  with  a  pessimism 
focussed  on  the  microscope. 

In  the  old  days  men'  had  been  men,  now  they  were 
doctors'  patients.  Once  they  had  been  healthy,  now  they 
were  hygienic.  Once  they  had  gazed  with  rapture  at 
Raphael's  Madonnas,  now  they  peered  with  curiosity 
at  microbes.  Once  they  had  been  inspired  by  faith,  hope, 
and  charity,  now  they  were  debased  by  agnosticism, 

[215] 


BARRY  GORDON 

pathology,  and  philanthropy.  The  smaller  the  age  the 
bigger  the  words. 

Barry  shuddered  as  he  stared  at  Mrs.  Beekman's 
sinister  toy.  He  would  have  liked  to  throw  the  thing 
out  of  the  window.  But  he  only  smiled  cynically.  That 
would  have  been  sacrilege.  In  the  old  days  sacrilege 
meant  the  abuse  of  something  sacred — for  example,  a 
crucifix.  But  the  microscope  was  the  crucifix  of  to-day 
— a  symbol  of  men's  sublime  faith! 

He  passed  a  hand  over  the  cold  smooth  tube  and  his 
pessimism  deepened. 

Oh,  it  meant  a  lot,  this  neat  instrument!  Could  its 
lenses  be  made  powerful  enough  one  might  look  through 
it  and  find  out  the  truth  about  a  man — see  the  ancestral 
germ  in  a  drop  of  his  blood — the  germ  of  evil — the  devil 
himself! 

Barry  drew  a  short  harsh  laugh.  His  thoughts  were 
fantastic  and  ironical. 

Yes;  the  devil  was  a  microbe;  nothing  more  nor 
less! 

He  bent  forward  and  held  an  eye  to  the  instrument. 
As  he  saw  one  of  Mrs.  Beekman's  specimens  he  made 
a  wry  face.  Yes,  the  Bible  was  right  after  all.  The  devil 
had  horns  and  a  tail,  but  the  horns  were  like  a  snail's 
and  the  tail  was  like  a  tadpole's ! 

As  Barry  straightened  up,  his  sardonic  humour  left 
him.  Could  a  man  be  beaten  by  one  of  these  specks  of 

[216] 


BARRY  GORDON 

matter?  Yes,  the  specks  of  matter  had  killed  every  man 
that  had  lived  on  this  earth! 

He  paced  back  and  forth  again  restlessly.  From  the 
seamy  side  of  life  only  one  influence  could  save  him — 
Muriel's. 

If  only  he  could  ask  her! 

As  Muriel  entered  the  room  this  thought  was  in  his 
mind,  this  hunger  in  his  heart. 

She  came  in  slowly,  and  he  saw  in  her  eyes  the  after- 
light of  shed  tears,  and,  half  hidden  in  the  clear  loveli- 
ness of  her  face,  shadows  of  trouble. 

Midway  to  him  she  paused,  burned  by  his  mere  look. 
She  felt  a  sudden  great  throb  of  her  heart,  felt  the 
colour  flame  in  her  cheeks.  In  all  the  two  years  they  had 
not  once  spoken  the  words,  but  he  was  speaking  them 
now  in  silence.  On  his  dumb  lips,  in  his  dark  eyes,  in  his 
whole  person  at  this  moment,  she  saw  his  love. 

Yet  he  was  in  the  throes  of  some  struggle,  every  mus- 
cle tense,  his  face  scarred  with  sudden  lines,  his  look  the 
look  of  a  man  drowning. 

"  Muriel,"  he  asked  brokenly,  "  are  you  going  to  let 
them  take  you  away  from  me?  " 

She  averted  her  eyes  and  moved  over  to  the  empty 
fire-place,  as  if  the  mere  memory  of  its  winter  warmth 
could  dispel  the  chill  of  her  mother's  plan.  She  turned 
at  the  hearth  and  faced  him,  with  the  room  between 
them.  But  even  then  her  glance  fell  before  his. 

[217] 


BARRY  GORDON 

As  Barry,  awaiting  her  answer,  stood  gazing  at  her, 
his  look  grew  almost  resentful.  Why  did  he  repeatedly 
have  fresh  impressions  of  her — impressions  so  frequent 
and  vivid  that  it  seemed  as  if  every  day  he  saw  her  for 
the  first  time?  This  was  the  rare  magic  of  Muriel — she 
was  always  new ! 

Here  at  this  very  moment,  all  unconsciously,  she  was 
branding  on  his  heart  a  new  image.  Even  her  clothes 
were  part  of  it,  her  dress  was  so  much  a  part  of  her 
inner  self. 

She  wore  a  cloth  walking  suit  of  a  pale  turquoise 
blue,  and  a  piquant  hat  of  the  same  colour.  One  hand 
pressed  her  heart  to  quiet  it,  the  other  drooped  over  the 
mantel-shelf,  the  fingers  toying  with  a  pair  of  long 
white  gloves  that  hung  down  loosely.  Her  head,  too, 
drooped,  and  her  lashes. 

Her  grace  tortured  him. 

"  Muriel,"  he  repeated  desperately,  "  are  you  going 
to  let  them  take  you  away  from  me?  " 

She  raised  her  eyes,  smiling,  and  the  smile  was  a 
faint  challenge. 

"  Are  you?  " 

Dazed,  he  started  slowly  toward  her,  hesitant  and  still 
struggling. 

"  No,"  he  replied  in  a  strained  voice,  "  I  am  not ! " 

Something  in  his  tone  made  her  shiver  unaccount- 
ably. Her  face  lost  colour.  The  challenging  smile  faded. 

[218] 


BARRY    GORDON 

"  Wait,  Barry,"  she  implored  him  quickly.  "  I  didn't 
know  what  I  was  saying.  Perhaps  it  is  best  to  go." 

Her  words  were  instinctive,  unreasoning;  her  voice 
had  the  quality  of  shadows  in  it  and  gave  him  pause. 

But  his  blood  ran  hot  now  and  set  him  on  fire. 

"  No !  "  he  cried,  "  I  can't  let  you  go.  If  you  leave  me 
alone  again — if  I've  got  to  live  in  this  world  without 
you — Muriel,  I  can't — that's  all!  I  tried  a  long  time 
to  forget  you,  tried  for  seven  years  to  kill  my  love  for 
you ;  but  I  couldn't."  His  tone  softened.  "  Always  your 
voice  spoke  to  me,  your  eyes  looked  at  me."  He  drew 
himself  up  quietly.  "  Muriel,  I  am  my  love  for  you. 
That  is  all  there  is  to  me." 

Again  he  started  toward  her,  but  his  intensity  fright- 
ened her. 

"  Barry,  not  yet,"  she  repeated  f alteringly.  "  Ah — 
wait!" 

"No,"  he  said.  "Now!" 

She  swayed  like  a  flower  in  a  gale,  but  he  was  grow- 
ing reckless. 

Little  he  knew  the  gathering  force  of  this  wind  of 
destiny.  Little  he  imagined  the  invisible  threads  already 
extending  outwards  to  other  people  and  other  places. 
But  the  gray  Fates,  spinning  and  winding  and  clip- 
ping those  threads,  surely  looked  down  with  shrouded 
triumph  at  the  tangle  they  had  spread  around 
him. 

[219] 


BARRY  GORDON 

In  a  train  from  Washington  a  man  sat  alone  in  the 
smoking  compartment  consumed  with  impatience  for  his 
journey's  end.  He  had  a  nervous  look.  He  was  sitting 
forward  on  the  edge  of  his  seat.  He  was  frowning  at 
the  flying  landscape.  He  was  gnawing  and  fumbling  his 
cigar.  He  seemed  to  feel  that  by  mere  energy  of  will 
he  could  make  the  train  go  faster.  Time  and  again  he 
passed  a  hand  across  his  red  hair,  rumpling  it  till  it 
looked  like  a  fire  in  a  wind.  Time  and  again  he  con- 
sulted a  railway  and  steamship  guide,  his  brown,  frec- 
kled face  wrinkled  as  the  shell  of  a  walnut.  Time  and 
again  he  took  from  his  breast-pocket  a  large  letter-case 
and  reread  the  numerous  papers  it  contained. 

As  the  train  rumbled  into  the  station  at  Jersey  City 
he  clapped  his  hat  on,  caught  up  his  bag,  jumped  off, 
and  made  hastily  for  the  ferry. 

When  at  last  he  set  foot  in  New  York  he  hailed  a 
cab,  gave  the  name  of  a  club  on  Fifth  Avenue,  and 
dived  in. 

"  Muriel,"  said  Barry,  "  I  need  you  as  much  as  I 
need  breath  in  my  lungs.  I've  got  to  have  you ! "  His 
voice  broke.  "  And  yet " 

As  he  moved  toward  her,  intent  only  on  taking  her 
in  his  arms,  it  suddenly  seemed  to  him  that  a  shadow  fell 
between  them,  impossible  to  cross — the  shadow  of  Tom. 

With  a  great  effort  he  curbed  himself,  and  stopped. 
[220] 


BARRY    GORDON 

"  I  can't  forget  that  you  were  engaged  to  Tom,"  he 
said.  "  You  loved  him  then,  and  perhaps  you  love  him 
now — I  mean  his  memory." 

She  turned  and  looked  down  silently  into  the  fireless 
grate. 

"  You  would  have  married  him,"  he  faltered, 
wouldn't  you?"  He  paused,  but  not  long  enough  to 
permit  her  to  reply.  "  No,  don't  answer,"  he  said  quick- 
ly ;  "  let  me  believe  your  feelings  might  have  changed." 

He  stood  staring  at  her  back,  intoxicated  by  her 
lithe,  flexible  figure,  the  gentle  curves  from  her  waist 
upwards  under  her  arms. 

He  came  close  to  her,  but  the  shadow  came  closer 
yet  and  intercepted  him — the  shadow  of  Tom. 

He  was  mute  a  moment,  then  he  asked  with  deadly 
calm: 

"  Muriel,  if  Tom  were  here  now,  which  of  us  would 
you  choose?  This  is  a  vital  question." 

She  turned  silently  and  smiled  at  him  with  a  queer 
look,  half  wounded,  half  indulgent. 

"  Barry,"  she  said,  "  why  should  you  ask  ?  Can't  you 
understand  a  woman's  loyalty?  He  gave  me  his  love. 
If  Tom  were  living,  if  Tom  were  a  rival,  you  might  ask 
me;  but  Tom  is  dead." 

Her  look  was  almost  maternal,  as  if  she  longed  to 
soothe  him  and  pour  out  happiness  on  him.  The  shadow 
between  them  seemed  to  creep  away. 

[221] 


BARRY    GORDON 

"  Muriel,  forgive  me !  "  he  said. 

Then  he  came  even  nearer  to  her,  so  close  that  her 
fragrance  stole  through  his  senses. 

Suddenly  all  the  fire  of  his  race  leapt  up  in  him,  but 
his  manner  was  intensely  quiet,  his  voice  low. 

"  Muriel,  marry  me  to-day !  That's  the  way  out  of 
it.  Then  they  can't  take  you  away  from  me.  I've  a 
feeling  it's  now  or  never.  I  won't  let  you  wait.  No,  not 
even  to  see  your  father  and  mother.  If  you  did  there 
would  be  no  end  of  talk  and  trouble.  Come!  It  is  not 
unfair  to  them.  I  warned  them  I'd  ask  you  to  do  this 
if  your  mother  drove  me  to  it — and  she  has !  Come, 
Muriel!" 

Her  eyes  were  melting,  warming.  Her  whole  person 
seemed  to  give  out  light.  It  was  as  if  the  long  darkness 
of  his  life  steadily  lifted  and  all  around  him  spread  a 
wide  and  gradual  daytime. 

He  lowered  his  gaze  from  her  eyes  to  her  lips,  and, 
as  for  a  fleeting  instant  he  watched  them  part  to  speak, 
he  remembered  a  single  perfect  poppy  he  had  once 
plucked  near  an  eastern  sea. 

"  If  I  do,"  she  asked,  "  will  you  go  on  fighting  your 
old  failing  with  all  your  strength?  " 

"  Yes,  Muriel,  with  all  my  strength." 

Her  eyes  met  his  trustfully,  her  answer  was  simple 
as  a  child's: 

"  Barry,  I  love  you !  " 


BARRY    GORDON 

Then  for  a  moment  neither  of  them  thought  or  spoke. 
He  knew  only  that  he  made  her  his,  she  that  his  arms 
crushed  her.  And  this  time  her  lips,  instead  of  turning 
to  ice  as  they  had  when  he  had  kissed  her  years  ago, 
faintly  responded. 

The  ethereal  sweetness  of  this  response  touched  his 
finest  fibres.  After  the  one  passionate  kiss  he  took  her 
hand  quietly  and  bent  down  to  it,  as  if  in  the  practice  of 
some  ritual  long  familiar  to  him  in  spirit.  There  was  a 
moment  of  deep  silence.  Then  she  breathed  shyly: 

"  Let's  go  to  the  old  farm,  Barry." 

As  he  raised  his  head  his  face  was  transfigured. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  to  the  old  farm." 

"  I'll  leave  them  good-bye,"  she  said,  and,  hastening 
to  the  desk,  scribbled  a  note: 

DEAR  FATHER:  Barry  and  I  have  decided  to  get  married  im- 
mediately. It  seems  best.  Once  it  is  fore ver  settled,  mother,  I'm 
sure,  will  become  resigned  and  try  to  know  the  real  Barry  as  you 
and  I  know  him.  We  are  going  to  the  old  farm  for  our  honey- 
moon. Do  write  to  us. 

Your  devoted  and  happy  daughter, 

MURIEL. 

Ask  mother  to  write  too — forgiving  us.     Love  to  you  both. 

"  Let  me  add  a  line,"  said  Barry,  and  did  so  on  the 
same  sheet: 

DEAR  MR.  BEEKMAN:  You  have  been  my  father's  best  friend 
[223  ] 


BARRY  GORDON 

and  mine.     I  ask  for  a  test  of  your  friendship  now — your  trust. 
Thanks  to  Muriel,  I  shall  be  worthy  of  it. 

Yours, 

BARRY. 

While  they  wrote  this  brief  farewell  the  Fates  were 
spinning  and  winding  and  clipping  their  threads  with 
ever-increasing  alacrity.  The  red-headed  man  in  the  cab, 
after  hastening  frantically  from  club  to  club  on  his  way 
uptown,  had  at  last  cried  Mr.  Beekman's  address  to  the 
phlegmatic  driver  and  was  coming  hurriedly  up  the 
avenue. 

As  Muriel  and  Barry  went  out  into  the  spring  morn- 
ing they  were  as  light-hearted  as  the  children  making 
holiday  in  the  opposite  park. 

Turning  into  a  side  street,  they  failed  to  notice  a 
cab  that  stopped  at  the  house  they  had  just  left. 


CHAPTER    III 

FLIGHT   AND    PUESUIT.       THEIR   WEDDING  NIGHT.       THE 

HARMONY   OF    THE   SPHERES,   AND    THE    JANGLE 

OF  A  DOOR-BELL 

THEIR  journey  on  an  express  train  seemed  to 
both  of  them  scarcely  actual.  It  was  merely  a 
speeding   through   space  in   a   brief   half-con- 
scious dream. 

As  the  landscape  flew  by  they  now  and  then  silently 
watched  it  from  the  car  window — the  brick  stations  and 
dully  busy  streets  of  Connecticut  towns;  the  old 
wooden  stations  of  dingy  villages ;  the  gray-haired, 
pipe-smoking  flagmen  at  lonely  crossings;  flashes  of 
rivers  and  wide  stretches  of  meadow-land,  green  and  gold 
in  the  sunshine.  Then  came  Rhode  Island  with  its  wilder 
look — old  orchards,  rambling  stone  walls,  isolated 
farms,  woods  and  swamps.  Then  at  last  they  gained  the 
Massachusetts  country,  less  unkempt,  more  park-like — 
the  old  white  farmhouses,  simple  and  neat,  like  the  en- 
chanted house  at  the  end  of  this  unthinking  journey. 

As  dusk  fell  like  a  curtain  behind  the  car  window, 
the  landscape  was  shut  out  and  each  saw  the  other's  face 
vaguely  imaged  in  the  glass. 

[225] 


BARRY  GORDON 

Barry  drew  closer  and  spoke  in  a  low  voice  to  Muriel's 
reflection. 

"  That's  the  way  I  used  to  see  you,"  he  said. 
"  The  world  flew  by.  Scenes  changed.  I  knocked  about 
for  years,  but  I  always  saw  you,  Muriel,  in  the  heart  of 
it  all."  He  turned  to  her  as  if  almost  fearing  to  test 
the  reality  of  her  companionship.  Then  he  smiled. 
"  Now  it's  different,  isn't  it,  Muriel?  " 

The  two  had  had  lunch  on  the  train,  a  memorable  and 
dilatory  repast.  Their  talk  for  the  most  part  had  been 
light.  They  agreed  that  the  clergyman  who  had  just 
married  them  was  the  most  lovable  old  soul  on  earth. 
They  rejoiced  in  the  fact  that  no  house  servants  were 
yet  at  the  farm.  They  agreed  that  they  preferred  camp- 
ing out  there  by  themselves.  She  had  sent  a  telegram  to 
Peter  Best,  the  gardener,  and  they  laughed  as  they  pic- 
tured his  surprise  at  sight  of  her  new  signature,  "  Mu- 
riel Gordon."  They  talked,  too,  of  places  they  would 
visit,  sights  they  would  see,  the  intimate  roving  life 
they  would  live  together. 

Afterwards  Muriel  remembered  almost  word  for  word 
this  low-voiced  happy  conversation.  But  the  memory  was 
haunting.  As  she  looked  back  on  their  wedding  journey 
she  could  see  Nemesis  following  them.  Though  they  felt 
so  free,  they  were  fettered  by  the  Fates'  threads. 

Pursuing  them  in  a  train  that  had  left  New  York 
[226] 


BARRY  GORDON 

two  hours  after  theirs,  sat  the  red-headed,  walnut-faced 
man  and  Mrs.  Beekman. 

Now  and  again  Mrs.  Beekman  would  draw  from  her 
bag  her  daughter's  farewell  missive  and  read  it,  through 
bitter  tears. 

"  Poor  Muriel !  What  madness !  "  she  kept  muttering 
to  herself.  "  She's  out  of  her  head.  There's  no  insanity 
like  infatuation ! " 

Once  Mrs.  Beekman  turned  to  her  fellow  pursuer  and 
asked  if  they  might  not  catch  the  runaway  couple 
sooner  by  sending  a  telegram  to  some  station  ahead; 
but  he  said  they  had  perhaps  gone  by  another  route, 
and  that  anyway  the  matter  could  not  be  explained  by 
telegraph. 

Mrs.  Beekman  bent  closer  to  him  and  asked  queru- 
lously : 

"  Mr.  Hicks,  can't  you  at  least  give  me  some  ink- 
ling?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  My  orders  are  very  positive.  I  can  say  nothing 
except  to  Barry  himself." 

With  a  deep  sigh  Mrs.  Beekman  turned  her  back  on 
him,  pulled  down  the  window-shade,  and  sat  long  with 
her  eyes  closed,  the  very  picture  of  acid  woe. 

The  unsuspecting  fugitives  were  now  at  the  end  of 
their  journey.  On  arriving  at  Boston  they  had  caught 
[227] 


BARRY  GORDON 

a  train  just  leaving  for  the  village  near  the  Beekman 
farm.  At  the  station  they  were  met  by  Peter  Best,  whose 
get-up  would  have  made  them  laugh  had  it  not  been 
assumed  in  their  honour.  The  coachman  had  not  yet 
come  from  New  York  for  the  summer,  so  Peter  had 
donned  a  discarded  suit  of  livery,  a  choking  collar,  and 
starched  cravat.  Stiffly  trussed  yet  proud  of  the  occa- 
sion, he  sat  bolt  upright  in  the  station-carriage,  and 
touched  a  finger  to  the  coachman's  uncomfortable  top- 
hat.  He  was  so  overwhelmed  by  their  sudden  arrival  that 
he  could  only  stammer  some  unintelligible  greeting. 

At  the  house  his  wife,  a  marvel  of  respectability 
and  neatness,  was  even  more  impressive.  To  Muriel's 
delight  she  dropped  them  a  curtsey,  doubtless  practised 
years  ago  in  the  old  country  and  now  grown  quaintly 
unpliant  through  long  disuse.  This  painful  rite  per- 
formed, Mrs.  Best  seemed  much  relieved  and  grew  even 
talkative. 

Dinner?  Yes,  all  prepared — leastways  not  dinner 
exactly.  A  sort  of  supper  or  'igh  tea.  Nothing  fancy 
to  be  sure,  but  all  from  the  farm.  She  had  broiled  a 
spring  chicken,  "  weighing  full  two  pound " ;  she'd 
cooked  some  fat  green  "  sparrowgrass  " ;  she'd  set  a 
couple  of  tumblers  of  the  morning's  milk;  she'd  made 
a  cake  and  picked  a  bowlful  of  Peter's  prize  straw- 
berries. 

This  was  the  delectable  meal  they  ate  on  their  wed- 
[228] 


BARRY  GORDON 

ding  evening.  But  the  attentions  of  the  faithful  gar- 
dener and  his  wife  did  not  stop  here. 

Muriel  and  Barry  had  but  just  withdrawn  to  the  li- 
brary when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Best,  coughing  to  herald  their 
approach,  appeared  side  by  side  in  the  wide  doorway. 
Between  them  they  bore  an  astonishing  testimonial.  The 
thing  was  about  four  feet  high,  shaped  more  or  less  like 
a  horse-shoe,  and  composed  of  innumerable  white  bride 
roses  set  in  a  wire  form.  At  the  top  the  flowers  were 
stiffly  studded  with  a  crude  design  of  violets,  stuck  in 
with  crushing  care,  and  blazoning  forth  in  startling 
purple  the  hyphenated  initials  of  the  bride  and  groom. 

In  every  way  this  enormous  gift  conformed  to  the 
species  of  monstrosity  known  as  a  "  floral  offering." 
But  Muriel  and  Barry  were  quick  to  respond. 

"  Peter !  Mrs.  Best !  "  said  Muriel.  "  How  nice  of  you ! 
What  a  wonderful  surprise !  " 

"  Superb !  "  declared  Barry.  "  What  a  lot  of  time  it 
must  have  taken !  " 

Greatly  pleased,  Mrs.  Best  beamed  at  Muriel. 

"  I  always  'oped  Mr.  Barry'd  win  you." 

"  Me  too,"  said  Peter,  standing  their  wedding-present 
conspicuously  against  the  empty  fire-place. 

Barry  laughed  and  thanked  them. 

But  after  Peter  and  his  wife  had  bowed  good  night 
and  withdrawn,  Muriel  and  Barry  stood  staring  at  their 
gift  uncomfortably.  Despite  the  loud  symbolism  of  its 

1 

J 


BARRY  GORDON 

shape  which  fairly  shouted  good  luck  at  them,  the  thing 
was  unpleasantly  suggestive.  There  was  something  fu- 
nereal in  the  purple  initials  on  the  white  background, 
something  almost  unbearable  in  the  heavy  fragrance  of 
the  massed  flowers. 

Muriel  shuddered,  reminded  of  a  similar  odour  whicK 
had  stolen  upstairs  that  night  after  her  debut  years 
before. 

With  a  mutual  instinct  of  escape,  they  drifted  out 
into  the  open  night  and  wandered  over  the  old  farm. 
And  soon  the  soft  warm  air,  the  deep  serenity  of  the 
starlight*  the  mystery  of  the  evening  and  their  love,  re- 
stored the  enchantment. 

Along  familiar  paths  they  wandered,  renewing  their 
intimacy  with  every  landmark. 

They  passed  the  barn  with  its  munching  cattle  and 
sweet  hay. 

"  This  is  where  we  first  met,"  he  said,  "  that  April 
morning." 

"  Yes,  Barry ;  this  was  the  birth-place  of  our  love." 

But  not  far  off  the  sight  of  the  empty  dog-kennel 
reminded  them  for  a  moment  of  the  big  St.  Bernard  now 
long  dead;  and  Barry,  remembering  the  night  when  that 
old  watch-dog  had  barked  alarms,  remembered  Tom.  He 
recalled  how  manfully  Tom  had  come  to  him  and  apol- 
ogised for  his  lack  of  spirit.  "  Barry,"  he  had  said 
simply,  "  you're  a  brick,  and  I'm  not." 

[230] 


BARRY  GORDON 

It  was  as  if  Tom's  boyish,  affectionate  voice  had 
spoken  the  words  but  yesterday. 

Barry  fell  silent.  Muriel,  who  hung  on  his  arm,  felt 
his  muscles  contract  mechanically.  She  drew  him  away. 

Then  the  evening  and  their  love  once  more  claimed 
them. 

Returning  to  the  house,  they  paused  at  the  familiar 
grove  walled  by  pines  that  pierced  the  sky  and  seemed 
to  drain  it  of  the  liquid  starlight  filtering  through  the 
branches.  Into  this  magic  interior  they  passed  and  for 
a  long  moment  here  they  stood,  first  looking  up,  then 
at  each  other. 

"  Muriel,"  Barry  said  at  last,  "  this  earth  and  sky, 
these  trees  and  stars,  are  all  nothing  but  dust  under  the 
feet  of  love !  " 

Once  more  his- eyes  met  hers  and  their  gaze  mingled. 
Then  like  a  sudden  flame  surrounding  her,  he  clasped 
her  and  kissed  her  yielding  lips  again  and  again.  The 
aromatic  scent  of  the  pine  needles  rose  all  around  them. 

"  Barry,  I'm  faint,"  she  whispered. 

With  an  arm  about  her  he  led  her  from  the  grove  into 
the  house. 

Peter  and  Mrs.  Best  had  now  gone  to  their  cottage 
for  the  night,  and  the  house  was  empty. 

Barry  waited  alone  down-stairs  to  blow  out  the  lamps. 
This  done,  he  remembered  that  he  had  neglected  to  lock 
the  windows  and  doors.  Striking  a  match,  he  saw  a  can- 

[231] 


BARRY    GORDON 

die  on  the  dining-room  mantel  shelf,  and,  lighting  it, 
went  the  rounds,  then,  candle  in  hand,  started  to  go  up. 

But  at  the  moment  of  his  setting  foot  on  the  stairway 
he  heard  a  quick  rumble  of  wheels  on  the  front  drive. 

Hesitating,  he  listened. 

The  rumble  ceased  and  he  heard  footsteps  on  the 
porch.  Then  somewhere,  deep  in  the  bowels  of  the  house, 
an  old-fashioned  bell  jangled  and  jangled. 

While  he  stood  there  in  surprise,  Muriel  came  to  the 
top  of  the  stairs.  She  was  in  a  wrapper,  and  her  dark 
hair  hung  loose  about  her  shoulders. 

"  Barry,  who  do  you  suppose  it  is?  " 

"  I  can't  imagine,"  he  said. 

"  I'd  come  down,"  she  whispered,  "  but  I '  As 

she  stepped  back  she  called  in  a  timid  voice :  "  Be  very 
careful,  Barry ;  it  may  be  a  burglar." 

"  Burglars  don't  ring  the  bell,"  he  laughed ;  and 
Muriel  went  back  to  her  bedroom. 

Returning  through  the  hall,  he  unbolted  the  door, 
opened  it,  and,  holding  up  his  candle,  stared  out.  The 
candle-flame  flickered  in  the  draught.  He  saw  two  fig- 
ures— a  man  and  a  woman — but  failed  to  recognise 
them  in  the  uncertain  light. 

"Who  is  it?"  he  asked  quietly. 

The  invaders  bore  down  on  him  and  entered  the  hall, 
Mrs.  Beekman  in  the  lead,  Hicks  turning  to  close  the 
door. 

[232] 


BARRY  GORDON 

As  the  candle-light  fell  across  Mrs.  Beekman's  face, 
Barry  smiled.  Her  intrusion  seemed  so  petty,  so  futile. 
But  as  Hicks  emerged  from  Mrs.  Beekman's  shadow 
and  the  candle  lit  up  his  familiar,  weather-beaten  face 
and  red  hair,  Barry  started  back  as  if  stabbed. 

Mrs.  Beekman  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Mr.  Hicks  wishes  to  see  you  on  a  matter  of  the  ut- 
most urgency.  Where's  Muriel?"  Anxiously  she  went 
to  the  stairs  and  was  about  to  call. 
"  She  can't  come  down,"  said  Barry  in  a  strained  voice. 

Then  he  shot  a  glance  at  Hicks — piercing,  question- 
ing, agonised. 

Hicks,  his  brown  face  drawn  and  lips  pallidly  com- 
pressed, nodded  in  silence. 

Barry  stifled  a  moan. 

"My  God!" 

Mrs.  Beekman>  turning  from  the  stairs,  saw  him  catch 
Hicks  by  the  arm  almost  savagely.  The  candle,  which  he 
still  mechanically  heldj  lit  up  their  profiles,  the  one 
blunt,  short,  and  rugged  as  a  rock,  the  other  chiseled 
as  if  by  the  sweep  of  a  sword — the  profile  of  a  soul  in 
fixed  torment. 

"  Are  you  certain  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  every  minute  counts !  "  said  Hicks.  "  He's 
still  a  prisoner !  " 

Barry  staggered,  and  the  candle  flared.  He  passed 
a  hand  across  his  forehead. 

[233] 


BARRY  GORDON 

Suddenly  Muriel,  again  at  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
called : 

"  What  is  it,  Barry?  Shall  I  come  down?  " 

He  controlled  himself  and  managed  to  call  back 
lightly: 

"  No ;  just  a  minute,  Muriel." 

"  If  you  go,"  said  Hicks  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  go  with 
you.  Those  are  my  orders.  There's  a  fast  steamer  from 
New  York  at  ten  to-morrow  morning.  I  told  them  at 
the  club  to  pack  your  clothes.  We  can  take  the  mid- 
night train  to-night  from  Boston." 

Barry  stared  at  him  defiantly,  almost  with  hatred. 

"  Do  you  know  what  you  are  asking?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Hicks  hoarsely ;  "  but  I  promised  you 
I'd  come  and  I  have !  " 

Barry  laughed  a  low  bitter  laugh,  then  his  face  dark- 
ened again  and  he  flung  away  toward  the  stairs. 

"  Get  some  one  else !  " 

"  Barry ! "  Hicks  followed  him  close  and  said  some- 
thing which  Mrs.  Beekman  could  not  hear,  but  which 
Barry  heard  so  plainly  that  every  word  seemed  like  the 
thrust  of  a  knife.  "  The  State  Department  says  you  are 
the  only  man  who  knows  the  ropes  over  there  in  Mo- 
rocco well  enough  to  undertake  the  rescue.  Open  force 
won't  work.  It  would  only  add  to  Tom's  danger." 

Barry  stood  staring  at  him  sullenly. 

"  Well,"  said  Hicks,  "  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 
[234] 


BARRY  GORDON 

He  took  out  his  watch  and  consulted  it.  "  We've  got 
to  leave  here  immediately."  His  dry  voice  cracked. 
"  Barry,  for  God's  sake,  come !  " 

Then  Muriel,  once  more  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  called 
down: 

"  Barry,  what  are  you  doing?  Who's  down  there?  " 

Mastering  his  voice  he  again  called  back  mechan- 
ically : 

"Just  a  minute,  Muriel;  just  a  minute!"  and  they 
heard  her  slowly  returning  to  her  room. 

Suddenly  something  unpleasant  to  see  went  out  of 
Barry's  face  and  left  it  purified. 

"  Is  the  carriage  still  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Hicks. 

"  Then — one  moment." 

Hicks  understood. 

"  Warn  them  to  keep  it  dark,"  he  cautioned  him. 
"  If  this  became  public,  there  might  be  war."  He  with- 
drew to  the  porch. 

Barry  turned  quickly  to  Mrs.  Beekman  and  said  in 
a  low  voice : 

"  Not  a  word  of  this,  please,  to  any  one  but  the 
family.  I  go  to  New  York  to-night  and  start  for  Mo- 
rocco to  morrow  morning.  Tom's  alive ! " 

Mrs.  Beekman  stared  at  him  vaguely. 

"  He's  still  a  prisoner,"  said  Barry,  "  and  we've  got 
to  try  to  save  him." 

[235] 


BARRY  GORDON 

Mrs.  Beekman  was  utterly  benumbed.  Her  mind  re- 
fused to  reason.  Barry  had  eloped  with  her  daughter 
and  she  had  pursued  in  blind  anger.  But  now  that  he 
was  threatening  to  forsake  Muriel  on  the  very  day  of 
their  marriage,  her  maternal  love  with  all  its  virile  in- 
consistency made  her  quite  as  bitter  against  him  for  this 
mad  desertion.  What  the  cause  was  she  could  not  take 
in.  His  talk  of  Tom  coming  to  life  again  seemed  a  mere 
fantastic  nightmare. 

"  Barry,  you're  not  going  away  ?  "  she  said  feebly. 

"  Yes."  He  caught  up  his  hat. 

"  Not  without  seeing  Muriel ! "  she  protested  in 
amazement. 

"  Yes !  "  He  gave  her  the  candle,  which  she  took  with- 
out knowing  that  she  took  it.  "  Go  up,  please,  and  tell 
her."  His  voice  trembled ;  his  face  was  haggard.  "  Tell 
her  I  had  doubts  all  along.  Then  she  will  understand." 

Mrs.  Beekman  was  distracted. 

"  Barry,  it's  monstrous  to  leave  like  this ! " 

"No;  I  must!  Can't  you  realise?  If  I  see  her,  I'm 
lost ! " 

She  turned  quickly  to  call  Muriel. 

"  No ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  forbid  it !  My  God,  it's  too 
much  to  ask  of  any  man !  " 

He  gazed  up  the  stairs  a  moment,  agonised.  His  lips 
moved  in  a  dumb  good-bye.  Then,  turning,  he  left  the 
house. 

[236] 


BOOK  VI 
THE   TREE  OF  LIFE 


CHAPTER    I 

A     HUMAN     STEW,     AND     OF     CERTAIN     TRAVELLERS     WHO 
SOUGHT   A  MAN   NAMED   BARRY  GORDON 

UNDER  a  cloudless  summer  sky  and  burning 
sun,  Tangier's  market-place  teemed  with  life. 
Ever  since  early  morning  the  crowd  had  grown. 
From  their  outlying  homes  whole  families  had  journeyed 
hither  with  produce  for  the  town.  Mile  on  mile,  hour 
on  hour,  the  sluggish  streams  had  wound  their  way 
hither,  the  patriarchs  leading  files  of  lusty  sons  and 
weary  daughters,  the  men  on  camels,  mules,  horses,  the 
women  freighted  with  burdens  and  trudging  barefoot 
through  the  scorching  dust. 

For  to-day  was  market-day,  and  the  great  sok  a 
second  Mecca,  and  Mammon  outrivalled  Mahomet  in 
their  hearts. 

Hither  to  this  lustrous  white  city,  set  on  a  hill  between 
sea  and  desert,  they  had  come  for  years  each  week  and 
thronged  the  market.  Hither  for  centuries  on  centuries 
their  ancestors  had  come  before  them  in  just  the  same 
way — the  patriarchs  leading  hale  youths  and  tired  girls, 
the  youths  mounted  and  the  girls  afoot.  This  was  their 
world,  this  crowded  sok,  the  world  they  craved  after  the 

[239] 


BARRY    GORDON 

loneliness  of  their  zereebas,  the  turbulent  intercourse 
they  hungered  for  after  the  quiet  of  homes  safely  dis- 
tant from  highways  where  thieves  rode. 

But  the  arrivals  were  not  all  produce-sellers.  Water- 
carriers  were  abroad  with  filled  goat-skins  and  jingling 
cups.  Artisans  had  come,  and  migratory  tradesmen. 
Desert  Arabs  had  ridden  in  from  far  oases,  and  others 
were  here  to  whom  the  most  fertile  soil  was  human  na- 
ture, the  best  of  weapons  wit.  Jugglers  had  come  and 
snake-charmers,  glass-eaters,  scorpion-eaters  and  all 
manner  of  self-torturers.  Saints  had  come  and  holy 
doctors;  outlaws  had  come,  and  minstrels,  and  tell- 
ers of  tales — vagrants  whose  only  marketable  stuff 
lay  hid  in  the  brains  behind  their  humorous  dark 
eyes. 

And  now  under  a  low,  hot,  cobalt  sky  that  overhung 
the  sok  like  a  canopy  shutting  out  higher  air,  these  peo- 
ple haggled,  whispered,  shrieked,  jostled,  joked  and 
cursed,  till  as  motley  a  crew  as  the  world  holds  had  set 
pandemonium  loose.  Everywhere  rose  the  cry  of  the 
sweet-meat  venders,  the  thunder  of  powder-play,  the 
clamour  of  the  t'bal  or  drum.  It  was  as  if  the  African  sun 
had  energised  a  vast  hodge-podge  of  noises,  smells, 
colours;  as  though  it  had  set  boiling  and  bubbling  an 
immense  stew  of  humanity. 

But  the  general  movement  was  very  slow.  It  lacked 
the  hurry  of  younger  races.  The  place  was  free  of 

[240] 


BARRY  GORDON 

the  infidel  pest  at  this  season.  There  was  not  a 
foreigner  at  the  market  this  summer  afternoon  save  two 
women. 

These  two  were  Mrs.  Beekman  and  Kitty  Van  Ness. 
Mrs.  Beekman  felt  hopelessly  bewildered.  Suddenly  the 
regularity  of  her  life  had  been  broken,  her  mental 
processes  jumbled  into  a  scatter-brained  whirl,  her  phi- 
losophy ruined. 

"  Kitty,"  she  wailed,  "  I  fear  I  shall  go  mad." 

She  looked  about  her  with  a  vague  and  helpless 
glance,  and  thrust  a  hand  in  Kitty's  arm  as  if  in  need 
of  protection.  All  about  them  swarmed  the  natives — 
Moors,  Arabs,  Berbers,  Rifs,  Jews,  negroes;  men, 
women,  and  children  of  every  shade  from  black  to  white, 
and  clad  in  every  hue  of  the  rainbow. 

Somehow  this  orgy  of  colour  vexed  Mrs.  Beekman's 
New  England  soul  and  blinded  her  cold  eyes.  But  the 
orgy  of  sound  was  even  worse.  This  roar  of  trade,  this 
babel  of  tongues,  unintelligible  and  deafening,  terrified 
her. 

"  Kitty,"  she  moaned,  "  why,  oh,  why  did  we  come  ? 
Why  did  we  follow  Barry?  I  knew  we  couldn't  find  him. 
Two  everlasting  days  in  this  dreadful  place  and  not 
a  sign  of  him!  We  were  fools.  It  was  unreasonable  of 
Muriel  to  demand  it." 

"She  didn't  demand  it,"  retorted  Kitty.  "Would 
you  have  let  her  come  alone  ?  "  She  laughed,  bright  with 

[841] 


BARRY  GORDON 

excitement,  as  she  drank  in  the  scene.  "  It's  like  a  gigan- 
tic kaleidoscope,"  she  mused,  "  a  kaleidoscope  in  a 
storm.  No  wonder  Barry  loves  it ! " 

Kitty,  alone  of  all  the  family,  was  not  wholly  un- 
happy. There  was  a  bare  chance  that  Tom  might  come 
back  into  her  life — Tom,  the  one  boy  in  a  world  of 
men,  old  in  years  or  evil;  Tom  who  stood  for  youth 
and  bright  innocence  and  everything  else  out  of  which 
she  had  been  cheated  by  others.  Long  ago  she  had 
warmed  to  him,  and  ever  since  had  idolised  him  in  mem- 
ory. And  now  she  had  hopes  of  seeing  him  again  in  flesh 
and  blood,  and  no  longer  the  property  of  another 
woman. 

Two  natives  came  elbowing  their  way  through  the 
crowd. 

"  Hire  a  guide !  "  they  cried  importunately.  "  Take  a 
guide!" 

One  was  a  small  man,  keen-featured,  gray-eyed,  and 
almost  white.  He  wore  European  dress  save  for  a  blue- 
tasselled  fez  cocked  on  his  coarse  black  hair. 

"  My  name  is  Abdul,"  said  he  with  a  jerky  bow.  "  I 
am  the  best  of  guides." 

His  companion  superciliously  smiled  down  on  him, 
then  bowed  with  a  grand  air  to  Kitty  and  Mrs.  Beek- 
man. 

"  I  am  Hassan,"  he  announced  loftily,  "  the  most  re- 
nowned of  all  guides  in  Morocco.  I  take  travellers  into 

[242] 


BARRY  GORDON 

the  desert.  I  engage  mules,  camels,  soldiers.  I  am 
like  a  wind  that  blows  everywhere — into  the  secret 
places." 

Abdul  uttered  a  clicking  sound  with  his  tongue. 

"  A  wind  ?  No ;  he  is  like  a  trumpet  that  blows  too 
loud.  He  is  a  Tunisian;  I  am  an  Egyptian,  a  scholar, 
an  interpreter." 

Mrs.  Beekman  turned  gravely  to  Kitty. 

"  The  question  is  whether  to  engage  a  Tunisian  or 
an  Egyptian." 

Kitty  thought  it  best  to  hire  them  both.  They  might 
be  of  aid  in  the  present  search.  She  glanced  across  the 
market  toward  a  large  white  house  surrounded  by 
gardens. 

"  We're  going  over  there  to  the  British  Embassy," 
she  told  the  guides,  "  to  ask  about  a  friend.  Help  us 
through  the  crowd,  please." 

They  had  but  just  started  when  they  were  overtaken 
by  Mr.  Beekman. 

"Not  a  trace!"  he  said.  "Muriel's  heart-broken." 
Turning  to  Abdul  he  asked  in  a  low  voice :  "  Have  you 
seen  an  American  here  named  Gordon — Mr.  Barry  Gor- 
don? He  came  on  a  secret  mission." 

The  question,  put  at  random  that  day  to  scores  of 
natives,  at  last  seemed  to  hit  the  mark.  It  was  so  un- 
expected that,  though  the  guide  locked  his  lips,  his 
eye-lids  fluttered. 

[243] 


BARRY    GORDON 

Mr.  Beekman's  keen  scrutiny  did  not  lose  the  tell- 
tale look.  He  turned  to  his  wife  and  Kitty. 

"  Your  other  guide,"  he  said,  "  will  take  you  to  the 
embassy.  I  want  to  speak  to  this  one." 

As  they  left  him,  he  led  Abdul  aside  to  the  outskirts 
of  the  market-place. 

"  You  have  seen  Mr.  Gordon,"  he  said  positively. 
"  Where  is  he?  " 

Abdul  narrowed  his  small  blue  eyes. 

"  Those  who  come  to  Morocco  on  secret  missions," 
he  replied,  "  are  never  seen.  They  blind  our  eyes  with 
the  glitter  of  their  gold,  and  with  its  magic  cast  spells 
upon  our  tongues." 

"  Ah ! "  said  Mr.  Beekman,  with  a  slight  lift  of  his 
fine  gray  eyebrows.  "  Mr.  Gordon  has  feed  you  to  keep 
dark  about  him."  He  touched  the  breast  of  his  coat 
significantly.  "  I'll  fee  you  double  to  tell  me." 

Abdul's  face  was  knotted  with  cupidity. 

"  The  magic  of  the  rich,"  said  he,  "  is  subject  to  the 
magic  of  the  richer.  There's  a  saying  that  a  little  money 
is  as  powerful  as  a  pasha ;  much  money  as  powerful  as 
the  Sultan."  He  blinked,  but  then  he  opened  his  eyes 
to  a  wider,  honester  gaze,  drew  himself  up,  and  shook 
his  little  head  with  such  emphatic  refusal  that  the  tassel 
on  his  fez  danced. 

Mr.  Beekman,  perplexed  and  disappointed,  said 
wearily : 

[244] 


BARRY    GORDON 

"  This  is  a  righteous  bribe.  My  daughter  has  come 
all  the  way  from  America  to  see  him." 

"  Who  has  come?  "  said  Abdul,  cocking  his  head  on 
one  side  till  the  tassel  dangled  over  his  narrow  shoulder. 
"  Your  daughter?  " 

"  Yes,  his  wife." 

Again  Abdul  shook  his  head  jerkily. 

"  His  purpose  is  noble,  his  heart  brave,  but  the  ways 
of  a  woman  are  like  an  enchantment.  They  melt  the  steel 
of  a  man's  will.  Besides,  I  love  him,  and  he  would  think 
me  a  traitor." 

Mr.  Beekman  felt  surprised  at  finding  such  integrity 
and  masculine  feeling  in  this  monkey-like  little  guide. 

Evidently  Abdul  read  his  thoughts.  Once  more  the 
clicking  sound  from  Abdul's  tongue. 

"  Hassan,"  said  he,  "  is  large  and  splendid  as  the 
setting  sun.  Yet  if  he  knew  this  thing  he  would  tell  you 
for  money.  But  I  am  small  and  dry  as  a  dead  twig,  yet 
will  I  not  tell  you." 

Mr.  Beekman  turned  away  and  sighed,  searching  his 
brain  for  some  telling  argument  with  which  to  break 
through  Abdul's  silence. 

His  anxiety  would  have  been  even  more  acute  had 
he  known  that  in  a  near-by  street  stood  the  object  of 
his  quest,  preparing  to  plunge  straight  into  mortal 
danger. 

[245] 


CHAPTER    II 

BARRY   GROPES  TOWARD  THE   LIGHT.      THE  SPIRIT   OF  THE 

SWORD    AND    THE    SPIRIT    OF    THE    MARKET-PLACE. 

HOW  A  WOMAN  HID  IN  A  BOOTH  AND  LISTENED 

A  WEEK  in  Morocco,  and  no  real  clue  until 
to-day.  Visits  to  the  Sultan's  ministers  in 
Tangier,  conferences  with  the  pasha,  in- 
terminable interviews  with  the  foreign  consuls,  hard 
rides  into  the  country,  flattering  gifts  to  kaids  and 
sheiks,  hours  spent  in  idle  but  inquisitive  good-fellow- 
ship with  all  sorts  and  degrees  of  natives — yet  nothing 
definite  until  this  afternoon. 

The  first  and  only  news  of  Tom  was  that  which  had 
been  cabled  from  Morocco  to  Washington. 

One  night  a  native  from  the  Rif  Mountains  had  come 
to  the  American  Consulate.  The  man  appeared  to  be  a 
secret  agent  of  the  Kabyles  or  of  other  hill  tribesmen. 
He  disclosed  the  fact  that  Tom,  though  still  a  prisoner 
somewhere  in  the  wild  fastnesses  that  faced  Gibraltar, 
was  alive.  The  proof — a  scrap  of  paper  torn  from  a 
carnet  or  book — bore  merely  the  date  and  Tom's  signa- 
ture, hastily  scribbled. 

Unluckily  the  native  guard  at  the  consulate  had  per- 
[246] 


BARRY    GORDON 

mitted  this  man  to  escape  before  Barry's  arrival,  and 
there  was  no  tracing  him.  But  his  news  had  established 
in  a  general  way  the  locality  of  Tom's  prison.  More- 
over, it  had  suggested  the  identity  of  his  captors. 

This  suggestion  coincided  with  the  earliest  theory 
of  the  crime.  It  accorded,  too,  with  the  suspicion  Barry 
had  expressed  so  vehemently  to  Kitty  Van  Ness  that 
night  two  years  ago  in  Paris. 

The  mountain  country  was  the  stronghold  of  Ali 
Hamed,  the  pretender  to  the  throne.  Ali  Hamed  was 
beyond  doubt  the  man  who  had  captured  Tom.  Yet  this 
daring  Berber  chieftain  was  not  a  bandit  of  the  usual 
type.  Though  an  outlaw,  cruel  even  to  torture,  he  had 
never  stooped  to  common  crimes.  Moreover,  he  was  not 
a  strategist.  His  was  the  true  Mohammedan  spirit — the 
spirit  of  the  drawn  sword.  He  could  not  have  planned 
the  clever  hoax  that  had  hidden  the  abduction — Tom's 
death,  his  grave,  the  execution  of  his  murderer.  No ;  he 
had  some  wily  accomplice  with  enough  money  and  power 
to  control  secretly  certain  of  the  native  troops. 

Thanks  to  Hicks,  many  facts  had  been  gleaned  as 
to  political  conditions ;  and,  thanks  to  Barry's  vivid 
imagination,  these  facts  had  been  gradually  vitalised 
with  meaning. 

Ali's  accomplice  was  probably  also  his  financial  backer. 
Three  years  ago  money  had  been  secretly  loaned  to  the 
pretender.  This  he  had  spent  on  an  immediate  uprising. 

[247] 


BARRY  GORDON 

But  the  uprising  failed,  and  he  found  himself  unable  to 
repay  the  man  who  had  backed  him.  That  secret  cred- 
itor had  probably  then  suggested  that  Ali  should  cap- 
ture some  agent  of  the  rich  Beekman-Roche  Syndicate 
and  try  for  a  ransom  to  clear  the  debt. 

The  capture  was  made,  but  the  wide  publicity  had 
necessitated  patience.  To  embroil  Morocco  with  foreign 
powers  would  ruin  their  chances.  Their  only  hope  was 
to  wait  till  the  clamour  subsided  and  then  begin  cautious 
negotiations. 

With  this  in  view,  the  principal  of  the  partnership 
who  supplied  the  brains  and  money  had  planned  the 
death  hoax  and  bribed  the  Sultan's  troops  to  carry  it 
through.  That  had  allayed  all  suspicion.  But  the  loan 
was  still  unpaid. 

They  waited  two  years — kept  Tom  in  captivity  two 
whole  years — not  daring  to  act. 

But  now  at  last  they  had  covertly  made  a  move.  They 
had  sent  that  man  to  the  consulate  with  secret  news, 
relying  on  the  consul's  good  sense  to  keep  it  private.  In 
this  they  were  not  disappointed.  To  the  world  at  large 
the  affair  was  still  a  closed  tragedy. 

This  was  the  story  pieced  together  by  Barry  and 
Hicks.  But  they  were  still  hopelessly  in  the  dark.  As  yet 
there  had  been  no  mention  of  a  ransom.  At  present  the 
conspirators  were  doubtless  biding  their  time,  too  cau- 
tious to  move  further. 

[248] 


BARRY  GORDON 

The  case  was  full  of  torment.  To  know  that  Tom 
was  alive  and  perhaps  suffering,  yet  to  wait  inactive, 
was  more  than  Barry  could  endure.  Desperately  he 
bent  all  his  energies  toward  the  discovery  of  the  power 
behind  Ali  Hamed.  Ali  himself  could  not  be  reached. 
As  well  seek  an  eagle  in  the  Andes.  But  the  other  was 
probably  a  townsman,  nearer  to  the  centre  of  things. 

This  supposition  proved  true.  At  last  the  darkness 
lifted. 

Two  days  ago  Barry  had  come  upon  an  old  ac- 
quaintance who  seemed  to  know  much.  The  man  was  Um- 
lai  ben  Mohammed,  a  silversmith  living  in  a  village  near 
Tetuan.  In  the  earlier  days  he  and  Barry  had  been  kin- 
dred spirits,  Barry  often  spending  hours  with  him,  idly 
philosophising.  He  was  hospitable,  benign  and  comfort- 
ably off,  his  silverrwork  more  a  pastime  than  a  business. 
Amongst  the  natives  he  was  known  as  churfa — an  adjec- 
tive of  esteem  applied  to  the  venerable.  He  was  invested, 
too,  with  sanctity,  being  one  of  the  prophet's  sons.  When 
he  walked  abroad  the  faithful  made  obeisance  to  him, 
catching  at  the  hem  of  his  robes. 

Soon  after  they  had  renewed  their  acquaintance, 
Barry  had  come  cautiously  to  the  matter  in  hand. 

"It  is  reported,"  he  said  in  a  gossipy  way,  "  that  Ali 
Hamed  is  in  need  of  money." 

They  were  conversing  in  Arabic,  in  which  Barry  had 
become  proficient  years  before.  Umlai  was  seated  cross- 

[249] 


BARRY  GORDON 

legged  on  the  threshold  of  his  door,  indolently  over-lay- 
ing on  a  little  hollow  gourd  a  delicate  tracery  of  silver. 
The  thing  when  finished  was  to  be  a  kief-box.  It  would 
hang  by  silver  chains  like  a  chatelaine  purse,  have  a 
silver  stopper,  and  contain  several  pipefuls  of  the  small 
intoxicating  granules.  Probably  for  weeks  or  even 
months  Umlai  had  been  working  on  it,  applying  dream- 
ily the  exquisite  silver  tracery  and  fitting  together  the 
infinitesimal  links  in  the  little  chains. 

Barry,  leaning  idly  against  the  door-post,  looked 
down  on  the  large  white  turban  and  voluminous  white 
burnous  that  clothed  his  friend.  Both  were  as  snowy  as 
his  long  beard,  and  seemed  to  symbolise  the  purity  of  his 
nature. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  at  last ;  "  but  Ali's  ancestors  were 
once  rich.  His  family  still  holds  the  great  key  to  a 
palace  in  Granada.  I  have  seen  pictures  of  the  key  em- 
broidered in  gold  on  the  head-gear  of  their  women.  They 
lived  there  centuries  before  the  Spaniards." 

He  set  down  his  work.  The  day  was  balmy  and  full 
of  sunlight.  Beside  him  on  the  ground  stood  a  little  vase 
of  Andalusian  pottery  containing  a  single  crimson  rose. 
He  took  the  rose  and,  holding  it  to  his  nostrils,  gazed 
off  dreamily  across  the  blue  and  tranquil  waters  of  the 
Mediterranean. 

After  a  moment  he  replaced  the  rose  in  the  vase  and 
resumed  his  work  on  the  kief-box. 

[250] 


BARRY    GORDON 

Barry  filled  an  old  brier-root  pipe  with  tobacco  and 
began  smoking  to  ease  his  impatience. 

"  It  is  reported,"  he  said  casually,  "  that  only  two  or 
three  years  ago  Ali  Hamed  was  well  supplied  with 
funds." 

Umlai  tapped  the  silver  tracery  on  the  gourd  with  his 
small  hammer  and  said  nothing. 

Understanding  the  ways  of  this  slow-speaking,  quick- 
thinking  old  descendant  of  the  prophet,  Barry  waited 
and  smoked  in  silence.  Those  were  long,  almost  unbear- 
able moments.  There  was  no  hurrying  these  people,  no 
forcing  them.  Once  their  lives  had  attained  this  sensuous 
rhythm,  anything  sudden  would  have  seemed  imperti- 
nent. 

Umlai,  forgetting  Barry's  presence,  once  more  set 
aside  his  work.  This  time  he  took  up  a  small  stringed 
instrument  called  a  gimbri.  On  this  he  began  to  play 
to  himself  while  gazing  off  again  over  the  sea.  The 
music  was  faint  and  monotonous,  the  three  strings  weav- 
ing as  it  were  the  mere  shadow  of  a  tune.  Yet  there  was 
a  low  wild  plaint  in  it  that  echoed  in  Barry. 

At  last  Umlai  ben  Mohammed  laid  aside  his  gimbri 
and  again  resumed  his  indolent  tapping  on  the  kief-box. 
Then  he  finally  answered;  and  his  answer,  though  it 
at  first  seemed  vague,  diplomatically  conveyed  a  world 
of  intelligence. 

"  At  Tangier,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  there  is  in 
[251] 


BARRY  GORDON 

the  Ciagreen,  which  you  call  the  Street  of  the  Silver- 
smiths, a  certain  booth  close  to  the  mosque.  It  is  owned 
by  a  rich  Jew  named  Ibrahim.  Doubtless  you  have  seen 
him  and  talked  with  him." 

Barry  nodded,  wondering. 

"  Yes,  frequently ;  but  he  knows  nothing." 

Umlai  smiled. 

"  He  may  be  an  admirable  man,  but  he  skilfully 
avoids  purchasing  my  kief-boxes.  Recently  I  have  found 
out  why."  Barry  bent  closer,  and  Umlai  lowered  his 
voice  still  more.  "  It  is  because  he  fears  I  am  a  spy.  He 
has  heard  that  you  and  I  are  friends." 

Barry  looked  puzzled  a  moment,  then  gradually  his 
face  cleared.  So  there  in  the  main  street  of  Tangier,  a 
whole  week  under  his  very  eyes,  was  the  man  at  the  bot- 
tom of  all  their  suffering ! 

"  Umlai  ben  Mohammed,"  he  said,  "  I  thank  you  out 
of  my  heart !  " 

He  rode  back  to  Tangier  with  all  speed,  and  now 
stood  lightly  conversing  with  Ibrahim  across  the 
counter  of  that  prosperous  merchant's  booth.  He  was 
still  in  his  riding-suit,  and  dusty,  travel-stained  and 
tired,  but  his  wits  were  sharp  and  his  pluck  ready. 

This  Moorish  Jew  with  whom  he  had  to  deal  was 
middle-aged  and  rather  portly.  He  wore  the  black  gaber- 
dine and  skull-cap  of  his  race.  His  black  moustache  and 
full  black  beard  heavily  masked  his  mouth,  chin,  and 


BARRY  GORDON 

cheeks.  His  nose,  though  racially  prominent,  was  not 
aggressive.  It  marked  him  as  a  man  more  stony  than 
fiery.  His  close-set  eyes,  though  large,  were  dark  and 
hard,  with  lights  in  them  obscurely  gleaming  as  if  re- 
flected on  black  marble. 

Altogether  he  seemed  an  impressive  figure,  and  looked 
not  a  little  incongruous  in  this  bazaar  full  of  trinkets 
and  ornaments. 

Behind  him,  hanging  at  the  back  of  the  booth,  were 
displayed  his  heavier  merchandise — vases,  jugs,  water- 
cups  and  all  sorts  of  native  brassware  for  sale  at  fab- 
ulous prices  to  curio-hunting  tourists.  At  the  sides 
hung  multi-coloured  Moorish  silks  artlessly  draped,  and 
leather  wallets  and  slippers  in  all  shades  of  red  and  yel- 
low. On  the  counter  were  kief-boxes,  amulets,  rings,  ear- 
pendants  and  necklaces  of  gold  coins — a  varied  assort- 
ment of  native  jewelry  and  gewgaws,  many  crude  and 
valueless  save  for  their  oddity,  but  some  revealing  the 
rare  delicate  touch  of  the  true  craftsman.  At  the  front 
below  the  counter  stood  piles  of  pots  and  pans,  some 
brass  and  copper,  others  made  of  the  local  clay  or  tanja. 
From  the  top  of  the  booth  against  the  front  flap  long 
kief-pipes  were  slung,  and  Arab  weapons. 

As  Barry  glanced  up  while  talking  casually  with 
Ibrahim,  he  noticed  just  above  his  head  a  large  hang- 
ing sword  in  a  leather  sheath  closely  studded  with  small 
cowrie  shells.  The  blade  was  half  drawn,  revealing  an 

[253] 


BARRY  GORDON 

intricate,  engraved  design.  The  sword  was  common 
enough,  but  Barry,  seeing  it  edge  down,  significantly 
over  him,  smiled  with  dry  humour. 

"  Fine  sword,  that,"  he  observed  carelessly. 

Ibrahim  nodded. 

"  A  great  bargain,"  he  declared,  leaning  forth  over 
the  counter  and  twisting  his  neck  to  look  up  admiringly 
at  the  weapon.  "  The  blade  is  true  Damascene,  the  scab- 
bard very  valuable.  In  some  parts  of  Africa,  shells,  you 
know,  are  still  used  for  money." 

Barry  nodded,  and  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  said 
with  a  shade  of  meaning: 

"  They  go  well  together,  Ibrahim — money  and  the 
sword." 

The  Jew  drew  back  in  his  booth.  Otherwise  he  be- 
trayed no  sign.  But  his  answer  was  not  without  sig- 
nificance. 

"  Yes ;  and  he  who  would  contend  against  their  power 
risks  all." 

Barry  shrugged,  indifferent  to  the  implied  threat. 
They  were  now  alone,  the  Street  of  the  Silversmiths  be- 
ing almost  deserted  in  favour  of  the  market-place. 

"  I  don't  come  to  contend  with  you,"  said  Barry, 
"  but  to  ask  you  to  aid  me  in  obtaining  the  freedom  of 
my  brother." 

Ibrahim  came  out  from  the  interior  of  his  booth  to 
keep  better  watch  on  the  street  and  occasional  passersby. 

[254] 


BARRY  GORDON 

"  Is  your  brother  in  prison  ?  I  have  not  heard." 

"  Oh,  you  have  not  heard,"  said  Barry  dryly.  "  Then 
I'll  tell  you.  He  has  been  AH  Hamed's  captive  for  over 
two  years.  I  thought  him  dead,  but  I've  lately  been  told 
he  is  still  living." 

Ibrahim  raised  his  black  eyebrows,  stroked  his  black 
beard. 

"  You  interest  me.  This  is  like  night  in  the  forests 
of  the  south,  a  world  of  darkness  filled  with  unknown 
things." 

"  Perhaps  you  can  shed  light  on  it,"  suggested  Barry 
ironically. 

Ibrahim  pondered  the  case,  heavily  impassive. 

"  You  say  your  brother  is  a  captive,  and  has  been 
mourned  as  dead  though  alive.  This  fills  me  with  won- 
der. This  is  like  a  story  told  to  a  child." 

"  Then  pretend  you  are  a  child,"  said  Barry  with 
mocking  significance,  "  and  believe  it." 

"  A  man  may  believe  and  yet  know  nothing,"  said 
Ibrahim.  He  drew  closer  and  lowered  his  voice.  "  Faith 
is  beyond  price;  but  knowledge,  being  inferior,  has  a 
value." 

Barry  felt  a  thrill  of  satisfaction.  The  Jew  was  show- 
ing his  hand  at  last.  But  the  game  was  deep.  Ibrahim 
must  have  been  waiting  for  this,  daily  hoping  for  this 
chance.  Yet  he  had  done  nothing  to  bring  it  about. 
Had  he?  Perhaps  he  had. 

[255] 


BARRY  GORDON 

Barry  turned  to  the  booth,  again  toying  meditatively 
with  some  of  the  knickknacks  on  the  counter.  The  game 
was  so  deep  that  it  seemed  unfathomable.  Perhaps  after 
all  the  Jew  had  caught  him  by  the  subtlest  move  imag- 
inable. Barry  took  up  a  kief-box  and  began  twisting 
and  untwisting  its  delicate  silver  chains.  His  brow  was 
drawn,  his  eyes  were  baffled.  The  game  was  even  so  deep 
that  perhaps  Ibrahim  had  refused  to  buy  Umlai's  kief- 
boxes  on  purpose  to  antagonise  the  silversmith  and 
bring  about  this  very  interview ! 

Barry  uttered  a  short  laugh.  He  looked  up  at  Ibra- 
him with  a  sudden  bold  candour. 

"  I  prided  myself,"  said  he,  "  on  tracing  this  affair 
to  you,  but  all  the  time  you  have  been  fishing  for  me! " 

Ibrahim  made  a  deprecatory   gesture. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  have,"  said  Barry  calmly.  His  glance 
grew  sharper.  "  Ibrahim,  I  know  this  case  from  A  to  Z. 
You  loaned  money  to  the  Pretender.  His  uprising  failed 
and  he  could  not  repay  you.  At  your  suggestion  he  took 
my  brother  captive.  You  wanted  a  ransom,  but  you  got 
scared.  So  you  decided  to  contrive  the  lie  about  my 
brother's  death.  You  did  it  so  well  that  the  world  be- 
lieved. Then  you  waited  two  years.  Then  at  last  you 
plucked  up  courage  and  sent  a  man  to  the  consulate. 
Then  I  came,  as  you  knew  I  would,  and  you  fished  for 
me ! "  Barry  smiled  darkly.  "  And  now  that  I'm  nib- 
bling you're  hoping  for  a  good  haul." 

[256] 


BARRY  GORDON 

Ibrahim  drew  back  a  step  and  regarded  him  with  a 
mixture  of  admiration  and  irony. 

"  You  are  more  to  be  feared  to-day,"  he  said,  "  than 
when  you  came  to  investigate  two  years  ago." 

Barry  winced. 

"  But  that  is  saying  little,"  added  Ibrahim  calmly. 
"  What  reason  have  we  to  fear  you  even  if  you  know 
the  truth?  To  your  brother  publicity  would  be  as  risky 
as  to  us.  We  would  see  to  that." 

Barry  made  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"  Come,  Ibrahim,  if  you  want  a  ransom,  name  it.  How 
much  does  Ali  owe  you?  " 

Ibrahim's  eyes  narrowed. 

"  Not  so  fast.  A  debt  of  this  kind  largely  exceeds 
its  face  value.  When  Ali  pays  me,  it  is  not  only  your 
brother  who  will  regain  his  freedom ;  it  is  also  Ali  him- 
self." 

"  I  see.  You  mean  he  will  no  longer  be  under  your 
thumb.  You  will  lose  your  grip  on  him." 

"  Yes,  and  on  the  revolution." 

Barry's  brow  darkened  again.  He  felt  deeply  dis- 
turbed. He  was  contending,  he  saw,  not  against  a  small 
cupidity,  but  profound  ambitions. 

"  Wheels  within  wheels,"  he  muttered.  "  If  you 
have  any  heart,  give  it  a  fling.  Be  human  and  help 
me." 

Ibrahim  drew  himself  up  with  implacable  dignity. 
[257] 


BARRY  GORDON 

"  The  home  of  a  Jew's  heart,"  he  said,  "  is  with  his 
family.  There  you  have  no  claim  on  my  hospitality. 
The  home  of  a  Jew's  brain  is  his  shop.  Here  I  welcome 
you." 

Barry  felt  his  hope  deaden  under  the  weight  of  this 
answer. 

"  Then  name  your  price,"  he  said  harshly,  "  in  cold 
money ! " 

But  Ibrahim  still  preferred  to  temporise. 

"  Cold  money  ?  "  he  echoed,  smiling.  "  Money  is 
never  cold.  It  breeds  a  passion  hot  as  love." 

"  Yes,"  said  Barry,  "  and  as  cruel.  Name  your  price. 
Are  you  trying  to  estimate  my  paying  capacity? 
What's  your  motive  in  waiting?  You  have  golden 
dreams  of  power,  eh?  No,  Ibrahim,  if  you  see  it  as  it  is, 
if  you  see  it  with  any  compassion,  it's  a  nightmare." 
Barry's  tone  was  bitterly  cold.  "  The  central  figure  of 
your  dream  is  my  brother — a  poor  devil  of  a  prisoner — 
perhaps  half-starved,  half-naked — so  low  in  luck  that 
by  now  he  is  probably  cursing  his  God." 

Ibrahim  shook  his  head. 

"  No,"  he  said,  smiling  suavely,  "  I  prefer  to  think 
of  that  poor  prisoner  set  free.  I  think  of  his  hap- 
piness at  being  released,  his  return  to  life,  man- 
hood and  the  world."  The  words  flowed  from  the  Jew 
with  oily  smoothness.  He  waved  his  long  dark  hand 
as  if  picturing  the  captive's  release.  "  I  think  of  him," 

[258] 


BARRY    GORDON 

said  he,  "  as  for  the  first  time  he  walks  out  into  this 
sunshine." 

"Stop!"  ejaculated  Barry  with  sudden  desperation. 
"  Drop  all  that !  You  needn't  try  to  play  on  my  feelings. 
I  suppose  you  think  my  heart's  my  purse  and,  if  you 
cut  it  open,  money  will  come  pouring  out.  For  God's 
sake,  name  your  price !  " 

Ibrahim  fell  silent,  his  swarthy  face  unreadable.  It 
was  as  if  the  spreading  darkness  of  his  secret  projects 
and  calculations  hung  visibly  before  him.  Even  his  full 
black  beard  and  moustache  seemed,  as  it  were,  dense 
shadows  outcropping  from  his  abysmal  depths.  But  his 
eyes  were  so  lacking  in  expression,  so  like  stony  solids, 
that  they  masked  those  depths  impenetrably. 

"  Ibrahim,"  said  Barry  with  strained  calmness,  "  if 
you  don't  come  to  the  point,  I'll  fight  my  way  to  your 
captive.  I'll  call  oh  the  American  Government !  " 

Then  for  the  first  time  Ibrahim  laughed  aloud,  a  low, 
short,  dry  laugh,  utterly  toneless,  like  the  knocking  of 
wood  against  wood. 

"  Fight  your  way  ?  "  he  said  scoffingly.  "  Have  you 
seen  the  gray  horses  of  Ali  Hamed?  Have  you  seen  Ali's 
aim  with  a  rifle — a  rifle  made  in  your  Christian  Amer- 
ica ?  "  he  sneered.  "  No ;  if  you  had  you  would  be  less 
eager  to  fight  your  way.  He  can  shoot  an  insect  on  the 
wing." 

Barry  met  sneer  with  sneer. 
[259] 


BARRY  GORDON 

"  That  for  him  and  you ! "  he  said,  snapping  his 
fingers.  "  Ali  will  find  more  than  an  insect  to  deal  with 
if  you  and  I  can't  come  to  terms  at  once."  He  made  as 
if  to  turn  on  his  heel.  "  Your  price,  or  I  cable  to  Wash- 
ington. You  know  what  that  means.  It  means  a  dozen 
warships  here  in  Tangier  harbour.  It  means  your  town 
bombarded,  your  home  destroyed.  It  means  that  this 
shop  of  yours,  and  all  this  truck  with  which  you  swin- 
dle foreigners,  will  be  utterly  wiped  out."  He  smiled 
mockingly,  tauntingly.  "  No  remunerative  trading, 
Ibrahim.  No  foreigners  paying  twenty  dollars  for  a 
sword  worth  two,  or  fifty  for  an  amulet  worth  five,  or  a 
hundred  for  a  necklace  worth  ten.  No  thousand  per  cent, 
profit,  Ibrahim — not  by  a  long  sight.  No  foreigners  at 
all  as  customers;  but  natives — your  own  people — look- 
ing for  bargains.  You  understand? — bargains,  scat- 
tered in  the  streets  by  foreign  guns ! — broken  necklaces, 
scorched  silks,  cracked  jewels !  I've  seen  these  devasta- 
tions before  now.  Can't  you  imagine  the  scene? — the 
pretty  disorder?"  He  smiled  dryly.  "What  wreckage! 
— merchandise  mixed  in  with  fragments  of  human 
bodies — very  possibly  some  of  your  own  body !  " 

He  laughed  grimly ;  but  Ibrahim  shuddered,  clutched 
at  his  arm,  and  began  to  protest  against  this  horrible 
outburst. 

"  Enough !  Forgive  me !  " 

Barry  drew  away  his  arm  with  open  aversion.  He  was 
[260] 


BARRY  GORDON 

only  conscious  that  Fate,  somehow  incarnate  in  this 
man's  hateful  form,  had  been  torturing  his  soul.  He 
laughed  again  cruelly.  His  bitterness,  now  at  high 
pitch,  had  rarely  been  so  sardonic. 

"  How  you  would  tear  your  beard !  "  he  said.  "  I  can 
imagine  whole  handfuls  of  it  whirling  like  thunder- 
clouds over  Tangier." 

The  Jew  cowered. 

"  Forgive  me ! "  he  wailed.  "  I  have  tormented  you." 

He  came  very  close  and  in  a  whisper  named  a  ransom. 

Barry  on  hearing  it  started  in  dismay. 

"  As  much  as  that !  It's  fabulous !  " 

Ibrahim  drew  himself  up  and  folded  his  black  robe 
about  him  with  regained  dignity. 

"  That  is  my  price." 

"  Then  go  and  whistle  for  it,"  said  Barry  hopelessly. 
"  I'd  give  you  ain  own  to  my  last  dollar,  but  that  would 
not  pay  half.  Your  demand's  preposterous." 

Ibrahim  raised  his  heavy  black  eyebrows. 

"  Are  you  buying  a  horse — a  slave — a  woman  ?  No. 
You  are  buying  your  brother."  He  came  so  close  that 
his  beard  brushed  against  Barry's  chest.  "  If  the  money 
is  not  paid,"  he  said,  "  your  brother  dies  at  once ! " 

Barry  suddenly  felt  his  blood  surge  to  his  head,  felt 
his  hands  grow  hot  and  restless.  His  fingers  ached  to 
fasten  on  the  man's  throat.  They  were  tightly  con- 
stricted on  his  riding-whip.  He  saw  red.  But  the  wis- 

[261] 


BARRY  GORDON 

dom  of  experience  and  the  instincts  of  restraint  bred  in 
him  by  his  seven  years'  conflict  with  life  were  like  steel 
chains  on  him,  curbing  his  impulses. 

He  began  pacing  up  and  down,  his  gaze  on  the 
ground,  his  facial  muscles  working,  his  teeth  in  his 
under  lip,  his  whole  look  and  bearing  those  of  a  man 
in  a  tragic  quandary. 

From  far  up  the  street  came  the  tumult  of  the  market. 
On  both  sides  the  bare  white  houses  shut  out  air.  Though 
the  sun  was  low,  its  brazen  rays  flowed  molten  through 
the  town.  Tangier  was  a  furnace  and  a  babel. 

Ibrahim,  his  back  to  his  shop,  stood  impassively 
watching  the  American.  They  were  both  too  engrossed 
to  notice  a  movement  in  the  booth.  From  behind  it  a 
woman  stole  in  at  the  far  side.  Though  she  was  a  Jewess, 
she  was  veiled.  And  though  for  several  years  her  beauty 
had  brought  large  custom  to  this  very  booth,  she  now 
concealed  herself  in  it  with  the  utmost  secrecy.  Silent 
as  a  shadow  she  slipped  behind  the  silks  hanging  at 
the  side,  and  waited,  breathless  with  anxiety. 

Suddenly  Barry  turned  to  Ibrahim. 

"  One  thing  I  ask :  let  me  see  my  brother  face  to  face, 
if  only  for  a  moment." 

"  No ;  you  would  try  to  rescue  him." 

"  What  if  I  did  ?  Surely  you  and  Ali  could  prevent 
it." 

The  Jew  thoughtfully  stroked  his  beard;  then  his 
[262] 


One  thing  I  ask:  Let  me  see  my  brother  face  to  face 


BARRY    GORDON 

eyes   cleared   and   his   manner   was   again    smooth   and 
tentative — the  manner  of  the  born  bargainer. 

"  This,  too,  has  a  price,"  said  he.  "  Your  brother 
is  my  capital.  For  two  years  this  capital  has  lain  idle, 
and  now  I  lose  it.  If  you  wish  to  see  your  brother 
before  he  dies,  that  is  a  loan.  Pay  me  a  fair  rate  of 
interest  and  you  shall  see  him.  But  you  will  have  to 
make  haste.  Even  with  fast  riding  it  will  take  you 
two  days  to  get  to  him." 

Ibrahim's  tone  was  so  metallic  that  Barry  shuddered. 
He  had  never  conceived  such  inhuman  barter.  To  hear 
Tom  spoken  of  in  these  utterly  heartless  terms  of  trade 
was  almost  more  than  he  could  bear.  Again  the  whip 
in  his  hand  quivered,  his  fingers  tingled.  He  could  have 
beaten  and  choked  this  man  to  death  for  trafficking  so 
brutally  in  Tom's  Jife-blood. 

Perhaps  Ibrahim  felt  his  danger. 

"  I  will  make  the  rate  low,"  he  said,  and  named  it 
in  a  whisper. 

Barry  started.  The  Jew  had  exactly  estimated  his 
cash  resources.  On  his  arrival  he  had  made  a  large  de- 
posit in  the  Tangier  bank,  and  somehow  Ibrahim  had 
ferreted  out  the  figures. 

"  Will  you  accept  payment  ?  "  asked  Barry,  "  after 
the  visit  has  been  safely  accomplished  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Ibrahim,  "  you  must  make  it  now.  You 
can  trust  me.  The  word  I  give  I  keep." 

[263] 


BARRY  GORDON 

Barry  nodded.  He  knew  the  type.  This  trader  would 
commit  any  wrong  save  a  breach  of  contract. 

"  We  won't  haggle  over  this,"  he  said  at  length.  "  I 
have  a  friend  here  in  Tangier  who's  in  constant  touch 
with  the  United  States  Government.  Break  your  word, 
and  you  know  the  penalty."  He  weighed  the  project 
carefully. 

Meanwhile  Ibrahim's  eyes  gleamed.  He  kept  a  grave 
front,  but  he  was  laughing  in  his  sleeve.  The  sum, 
though  not  a  twentieth  part  of  the  demanded  ransom, 
would  discharge  the  full  amount  of  Ali's  debt  to  him! 
And  the  captive  would  still  be  theirs. 

"  I  name  two  conditions,"  he  said.  "  The  first :  That 
save  for  the  escort  of  my  men  you  go  alone.  The  second : 
That  you  go  unarmed." 

Finally  Barry  looked  up. 

"  Will  you  give  me  a  written  passport  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Done  then !  "  said  Barry ;  and  the  silks,  hanging 
in  the  booth,  trembled. 

But  the  men  were  too  engrossed  to  notice.  Their  con- 
tract closed,  they  stood  a  moment  facing  each  other 
with  keen  antagonism,  the  Jew  ironical  and  secretly 
pleased,  Barry  grim  and  no  less  impenetrable. 

Then  Ibrahim  re-entered  his  booth  and,  seating  him- 
self at  the  counter,  began  his  letter  to  Ali  Hamed. 

Barry  went  at  once  to  the  bank. 
[264] 


BARRY    GORDON 

Silently  the  woman  slipped  out  behind  Ibrahim  and 
hastened  to  a  small  fandak  or  stable  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  town.  At  the  entrance  she  uttered  a  low  call,  and  a 
horse,  whinnying  gladly,  came  out  to  her.  Mounting  into 
the  saddle  man-wise,  she  rode  off  swiftly  toward  the 
east. 

In  the  meantime  Barry  returned  to  Ibrahim  with  a 
certified  cheque.  Across  the  counter  of  the  booth  they 
made  a  tentative  exchange,  Ibrahim  examining  the 
cheque,  Barry  the  passport,  which,  translated,  read  as 
follows : 

This  shall  protect  the  American  who  bears  it  (him,  and  him 
only),  and  shall  admit  him  (him,  and  him  only)  to  the  presence 
of  Ali  Hamed's  companion.  This  shall  also  assure  the  American 
who  bears  it  (him,  and  him  only)  a  safe  return. 

IBRAHIM,  THE  LENDER. 

Both  satisfied,  Ibrahim  thrust  the  cheque  under  his 
gaberdine,  Barry  the  letter  into  his  breast-pocket.  That 
closed  the  bargain. 

"  My  men,"  said  Ibrahim,  "  will  come  for  you  to  the 
south  of  the  market-place  at  sundown." 

As  Barry  turned  off  through  the  side  street  he  met 
Hicks,  who  was  evidently  seeking  him.  Hicks  appeared 
greatly  agitated. 

"  Barry,"  he  said,  "  they're  here.  They've  followed  us. 
[265] 


BARRY  GORDON 

I  saw  them  at  the  sok — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Beekman  and  Mrs. 
Van  Ness ! 

Barry  seemed  dazed. 

"  And " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Hicks,  "  your  wife  must  be  here, 
too.  They  are  probably  at  the  Hotel  Granada."  He  took 
Barry's  arm.  "  Come,  we'll  go  there." 

"  No,"  said  Barry,  "  I  can't.  It's  out  of  the  question." 
He  spoke  quickly,  tersely.  "  I've  found  our  man.  He's 
a  Jew  in  the  booth  near  the  mosque.  He  demanded  a 
ransom.  The  sum  was  fabulous — two  or  three  times 
what  I'm  worth.  But  I've  arranged  to  see  Tom.  He's 
somewhere  in  the  Rif  Mountains." 

Hicks  frowned. 

"  The  Rif  Mountains !  Ali's  stronghold !  "  He  drew 
himself  up,  staunch,  loyal.  "  When  do  we  start?  " 

Barry  smiled  gratefully. 

"  Thanks,  Jim,  but  except  for  a  native  escort  I  go 
alone." 

"  Alone ! "  cried  Hicks.  "  Man,  you're  mad !  What's 
your  plan?  " 

Barry  averted  his  eyes.  He  withdrew  his  arm  from 
his  friend's  restraining  grasp. 

"  Come.  There's  not  much  time.  They  meet  me  at 
the  south  of  the  market-place  at  sundown." 

"  Barry,"  cried  Hicks,  "  you're  a  fool !  I  shall  go  to 
your  family.  Perhaps  you'll  at  least  listen  to  your  wife." 

[266] 


BARRY    GORDON 

Barry  sadly  shook  his  head. 

"  You  only  make  it  harder  for  me.  Don't  tempt  me." 
His  look  was  stricken ;  his  eyes  were  piteous  with  ap- 
peal. "  Promise  me,  Jim,  not  to  see  them  till  I've  left." 

Hicks  flung  away  in  a  tumult  of  anxiety. 

"  I  promise  nothing !  "  he  muttered. 

Barry  stood  a  moment  looking  after  him,  then  turned 
with  a  sigh  and  went  for  his  horse. 


[267] 


CHAPTER    III 

"  AT   THE   SOUTH  OF   THE   MARKET-PLACE  AT    SUNDOWN." 
GOD    PITY    WOMEN  !      THE    CALL    TO    PRAYER 

HICKS,  stopping  first  at  the  cable  office,  sent 
an  urgent  message  to  Washington,  then  went 
at  once  to  the  Hotel  Granada. 

In  the  privacy  of  Mr.  Beekman's  room  he  took  but  a 
moment  to  explain  the  affair  to  Muriel  and  her  father. 
He  told  them  the  salient  facts  so  quickly  and  succinctly 
that  their  first  relief  at  seeing  him  lasted  but  a  moment. 
With  every  word  he  spoke  their  anxiety  grew.  Though 
Mr.  Beekman  was  thoughtful  and  impassive,  Hicks  saw 
his  thin  lips  twitch  and  his  brow  all  at  once  age  under 
the  strain. 

As  for  Muriel,  the  change  in  her  shocked  him.  Her 
face  was  drawn,  her  eyes  were  hollow  and  circled  with 
shadows,  her  lips  bloodless.  All  buoyancy  and  sparkle 
had  gone  out  of  her  and  all  beauty,  save  the  piteous 
haunting  beauty  whose  outer  expression  is  unbeautiful, 
whose  key-note  is  pain. 

Yet  he  could  not  spare  her.  The  case  was  too  grave, 
the  danger  too  imminent. 

[268] 


BARRY  GORDON 

"  Barry's  plan  is  mad,"  he  said  in  conclusion ;  "  sui- 
cidal!" 

The  word  stabbed  her  into  action.  Her  eyes  lit  up 
feverishly. 

"  No ;  the  ransom !  " 

Mr.  Beekman  nodded. 

"  Yes ;  any  amount,  and  at  once !  " 

Muriel  was  on  fire  with  impatience. 

"  Where  can  I  find  Barry  ?  " 

"  He's  to  meet  his  escort,"  said  Hicks,  "  at  the  south 
of  the  market-place  at  sundown." 

She  turned  to  the  window  and  shot  a  glance  at  the 
western  sky. 

The  sun,  immense  and  blood-red,  hung  almost  on  a 
level  with  her  eyes. 

Blinded  she  turned  to  the  door,  led  the  way  down- 
stairs and  out  into  the  street. 

Hicks  and  her  father  made  for  the  booth  near  the 
mosque,  she  for  the  market. 

As  it  was  now  late  and  the  crowds  were  returning 
from  the  sok,  Muriel  had  to  work  her  way  up-stream 
against  a  vast  tide  of  humanity.  But  though  she  was 
pressed  by  the  lowest  scum  of  Africa,  though  she  was 
jostled  by  men  in  filthy  sacking  full  of  rents  that  re- 
vealed great  streaks  of  brown  and  black  skin,  scarred 
with  disease  and  caked  with  dust,  and  though  now  and 
again  she  found  herself  wedged  between  horses  and 

[269] 


BARRY    GORDON 

mules  whose  cursing  riders  wrangled  for  passage 
through  the  narrow  streets,  she  never  faltered,  never 
flinched  in  her  struggle  up-stream.  How  she  passed 
them  even  the  natives  must  have  wondered.  She  must 
have  seemed  like  a  spirit  melting  in  and  out  and 
onward  so  swiftly,  so  elusively,  that  not  even  the 
walls  of  the  kasbah,  their  fortress,  could  have  stopped 
her. 

When  at  last  she  gained  the  market-place  and  crossed 
it,  she  came  upon  Barry  in  a  copse  of  trees. 

For  a  moment  he  did  not  see  her,  did  not  hear  her. 
Busy  about  his  horse,  he  was  looking  to  the  girths  of 
the  saddle,  the  strength  of  the  reins,  the  adjustment 
of  the  bit. 

"Barry!" 

He  turned,  bared  his  head,  and  smiled  as  if  he  had 
left  her  but  a  moment  before.  Outwardly  he  took  it  with 
so  much  ease  that  the  meeting  recalled  his  return  after 
his  seven  years  of  wandering — the  evening  when  he  had 
walked  in  and  greeted  them  off-hand  as  if  after  merely 
a  brief  absence.  This  nonchalant  quality  in  him  im- 
pressed her  now  even  more  than  it  had  then.  It  showed 
her  the  spirit  in  him  of  world  citizenship,  the  spirit  of 
fatalism,  the  spirit  of  his  adventurous  ancestors,  the 
spirit  of  a  large  intimacy  with  life  and  death. 

But  his  eyes,  as  they  met  hers,  betrayed  feelings  far 
deeper.  Once  more  they  had  the  old  lost  look. 

[270] 


BARRY    GORDON 

Muriel  stood  hesitant. 

"  Are  you  sorry  I've  come,  Barry  ?  " 

He  smiled  sadly. 

"  It  makes  it  doubly  hard,"  he  answered.  "  That's 
all." 

Then  with  an  effort  he  nerved  himself  to  speak  for 
an  instant  straight  from  his  depths. 

"  Muriel,  help  me  to  do  this  thing." 

The  appeal  thus  swiftly  made,  he  assumed  at  once 
his  first  manner.  He  turned  to  his  horse. 

"  Look,  Muriel — a  full-blooded  gray  barb.  See  her 
veins  stand  out.  Look  at  her  head,  her  neck,  her 
withers ! " 

He  seemed  to  be  trying  to  regain  his  old  recklessness, 
trying  desperately  to  seem  glad  of  his  mad  plan.  Stuf- 
fing his  soft  felt  hat  into  his  pocket,  he  bent  and 
passed  a  hand  over  the  horse's  flexible  steel  sinews  from 
shoulder  to  fetlock.  Then  he  straightened  up,  and  with 
an  arm  through  the  reins  stood  back  a  step  to  survey 
his  mount  in  perspective. 

"  Gad,  there's  blood  for  you,  Muriel !  There's  family 
for  you ! " 

Muriel  stood  motionless,  her  eyes  blind  with  unshed 
tears.  She  had  an  impression  of  a  queenly,  imperious 
horse,  with  veins  and  muscles  visible  under  a  gleaming 
coat;  a  mane  and  flowing  tail  like  silver  water;  atten- 
tive ears  and  large  impatient  eyes,  now  turned  toward 

[271] 


BARRY  GORDON 

her  as  if  rebuking  her  for  this  intrusion.  But  to  Muriel 
the  animal  was  unreal — a  shining  cloud — a  beautiful 
but  evil  phantom  waiting  impatiently  to  take  Barry 
away  from  her. 

Barry  drew  the  horse's  head  closer. 

"  Pat  her,  Muriel,"  he  said  desperately.  "  Pat  her." 

Muriel  recoiled,  and  he  let  the  mare  out  again  to  the 
length  of  the  reins. 

They  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  copse  of  trees.  The 
market-place  was  desolate  now — merely  a  large  expanse 
of  dust  crossed  by  ever-lengthening  shadows.  In  the 
distance  hooded  figures  drew  away  silently  into  the  white 
city  beyond — ghosts  returning  to  their  tombs. 

With  a  sudden  impulse  Muriel  came  between  Barry 
and  his  horse  and  intercepted  his  gaze. 

"  Oh,  Barry,  why  did  you  leave  me  that  night  with- 
out a  word  ?  " 

For  a  moment  he  was  mute,  mustering  all  his  strength 
to  resist  the  temptation  of  her  nearness  to  him.  Then 
he  said  quietly: 

"  If  I  had  allowed  myself  to  see  you,  I  might  not 
have  come  here — at  least  until  too  late.  Muriel,"  he 
added  almost  inaudibly,  "  I  loved  you  too  much." 

He  saw,  as  it  were,  a  wave  of  life  pass  over  her  and 
ebb  away. 

"  I  was  yours  then,"  she  told  him,  "  as  I  am  now." 

He  shook  his  head. 

[272] 


BARRY    GORDON 

"  Only  nominally." 

"  You  and  I  are  married,"  she  said,  looking  up  at 
him  bashfully  under  her  lashes. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  because  I  deceived  you." 

She  raised  her  head  with  a  quick  toss  and  her  eyes 
flashed  contradiction. 

"  You  have  never  deceived  me !  Your  doubt  about 
Tom's  death  was  a  mere  presentiment." 

"  Yes,"  said  Barry,  "  but  the  presentiment  was  very 
strong.  Yet  I  never  mentioned  it  to  you.  Silence  they 
say  is  golden.  Mine  was  a  leaden  lie." 

"No,"  she  rejoined;  "you  were  silent  because  you 
wanted  to  spare  me.  You  did  not  want  to  make  me  un- 
happy." 

Her  plea  on  his  behalf  rang  with  spirit  and  convic- 
tion, but  Barry  shook  his  head. 

"  That,"  he  replied,  "  is  what  I  used  to  say  to  my- 
self, as  a  sop  for  living  the  lie."  His  face  darkened. 
"  Muriel,  the  deeper  motive  was  this :  I  did  not  want 
to  lose  you." 

Muriel  quivered  and  lowered  her  eyes.  She  looked 
down  thoughtfully  at  the  dust  now  yellow  in  the  long, 
oblique  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  Then  she  gazed  up  at 
him  dumbly,  and  he  saw  that  she  was  not  unimpressed 
by  his  confession.  Her  look  was  altogether  sad,  and  once 
again  she  unconsciously  branded  on  his  heart  a  new 
impression. 

[273] 


BARRY  GORDON 

She  was  wearing  a  dark  blue  hat  and  travelling  suit. 
Behind  her  under  the  trees  the  dusk  had  gathered  thick, 
but  there  were  still  large  patches  of  golden  sunlight. 
On  the  yellow  ground  at  her  feet  lay  shadows  in  huge 
blots.  In  the  blended  glow  and  gloom  the  shade  seemed 
tinged  with  deep  purple — likewise  her  dark  dress  and 
hair.  In  the  heart  of  this  purple  gloom  her  face,  lit 
by  the  light  through  the  leaves,  was  like  the  face  of 
a  lovely  spirit,  weary  and  pale. 

When  presently  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him  in 
forgiveness,  he  felt  as  though  that  small  white  hand 
touched  his  heart-strings  and  made  them  vibrate  with 
pain. 

Once  more  with  childlike  simplicity  she  said  to  him: 

"  Barry,  I  love  you !  " 

Barry  trembled.  He  forced  himself  to  refuse  the 
proffered  clasp,  fearing  the  contact  of  their  palms.  He 
turned  half  away  with  a  pretence  of  examining  the  reins 
looped  on  his  arm. 

"  Yes,  because  I'm  your  husband,"  he  said,  fingering 
them  nervously.  "  You're  loyal,  Muriel,  to  your  mar- 
riage vows." 

"  No ;  I  loved  you  before." 

"  That  was  before  you  knew  Tom  was  still  alive.  Wait 
till  Tom  comes  back  to  you.  Tom's  worth  thousands  of 
me.  He  has  traits  that  would  give  any  woman  con- 
fidence, safety,  and  peace."  He  turned  back  to  her,  meet- 

[274] 


BARRY  GORDON 

ing  her  wounded  gaze  with  a  candour  outwardly  cold. 
"  Muriel,  it's  only  fair  play  to  both  of  you.  If  a  man's 
an  interloper,  he  ought  to  stand  aside.  For  generations 
the  honour  of  the  Gordons  has  been  almost  as  proverbial 
as  their  sins.  Have  I  inherited  nothing  but  their  vices? 
No !  "  he  exclaimed  vehemently.  "  No ! "  He  turned 
again  to  his  horse.  "  They  can  talk  as  they  like  against 
blue  blood,  but  give  it  a  race  and  it  wins."  He  stroked 
back  the  silvery  mane.  "  Doctors  make  blood-tests  with 
microscopes.  That's  all  very  well  for  the  body,  but  how 
about  the  larger  blood-tests " — he  drew  the  mare's 
head  toward  him,  looked  into  her  eyes,  and  smiled — 
"  tests  of  speed,  staying-power,  pluck — tests  in  the 
open  air  when  the  blood  runs  warm  and  sings  ?  " 

The  mare  began  to  champ  her  bit  and  paw  the 
dust. 

"  Yes,  in  just  a  moment,"  said  Barry  answering  her 
eagerness.  "  They  ought  to  be  here  now." 

Muriel  drew  closer  to  him,  her  brow  drawn  with  be- 
wilderment. 

"  Barry,  I  can't  make  out  your  plan.  When  you  come 
back  there  will  be  no  change,  even  if  Tom  comes  with 
you." 

Barry  averted  his  eyes. 

"  That's  all  in  the  future,"  he  answered  evasively. 
"  The  present  fact  is  this :  I've  got  to  go !  " 

His  voice  disturbed  her.  Under  its  grim  calm  there 
[275] 


BARRY  GORDON 

was  a  note  of  anguish.  She  slipped  her  hand  through 
his  arm. 

M  Barry,  wait.  Take  time.  Tom  is  held  for  ransom. 
Father  will  pay  it.  How  much  better,  how  much  safer, 
to  do  that !  " 

He  drew  away  from  her  hand,  then  turned  to  face 
her,  but  stood  dumb  a  moment,  his  glance  on  the  ground, 
his  fingers  clenched  on  the  reins.  At  last  he  looked  up. 

"  No,  Muriel ;  Fve  got  to  go.  There's  a  reason  you 
can't  guess."  He  hesitated  a  moment,  gazing  at  her  with 
hopeless  yearning.  Then  he  forced  from  himself  a  con- 
fession far  worse  than  the  first.  He  told  her  quietly  of 
the  darkest  blot  on  his  past. 

"  Muriel,  after  I  left  Kitty  that  night  in  Paris  when 
first  we  read  the  news  of  Tom's  death,  I  began  to  think 
of  you  as  I  had  not  allowed  myself  to  think  of  you  since 
Tom  had  won  you.  For  that  I  don't  blame  myself.  Con- 
sidering my  love  for  you,  it  was  only  human.  Any 
thought  may  come  to  any  man.  The  right  or  wrong 
depends  on  whether  or  not  he  surrenders  to  the  thought 
till  it  kindles  into  deeds.  That  was  what  I  did.  Though 
I  knew  these  African  tribes  and  their  strategies,  and 
though  I  believed  that  the  syndicate's  engineers  were 
correct  in  their  first  suspicions  of  Ali  Hamed,  what  did 
I  do?  I  sat  alone  in  a  Paris  cafe  tin  daybreak  and  drank 
— drank  hard!  Because  I  was  starting  in  the  morning 
to  look  for  Tom,  to  try  to  save  him  for  you,  I  drank 
"[276] 


hard !  Though  I  needed  a  clear  brain  and  every  faculty 
alert,  I  drank  hard ! 

"  And  that  was  not  all.  I  kept  it  up.  Though  I  strove 
to  get  at  the  facts,  I  drank  hard ! 

"  So  I  did  not  find  Tom,  and  ever  since  then  the 
memory  of  those  days  and  nights  here  in  Tangier  has 
hung  on  me  like  a  millstone.  You  remember  just  before 
our  wedding  I  asked  you  about  your  love  for  Tom.  That 
was  when  the  memory  last  cropped  up  and  accused  me, 
denying  me  the  right  to  marry  you  without  confessing. 
Yet,  Muriel,  my  love  that  day  was  so  desperate  that  I 
kept  silent  even  then. 

**  But  the  gods  cut  short  my  happiness.  Hicks  came, 
bringing  positive  news  that  Tom  was  alive.  Can 
you  blame  me  because  I  left  you  at  once?  Can  you 
blame  me  because  I  am  leaving  you  now?  No,  Muriel, 
you  can't.  Do  you  realise  that  if,  when  I  came  here  at 
the  time  of  Tom's  capture,  I  had  kept  sober,  I  might 
have  found  him  and  saved  him  these  two  eternal  years 
of  imprisonment  and  perhaps  agony?  That's  the  point. 
A  man's  no  stronger  than  his  greatest  weakness.  My 
one  great  failing,  Muriel,  though  I  thought  I  was  free 
of  it,  has  wrecked  us  an!" 

He  drew  a  deep  sigh;  then  slowly  his  face  cleared  as 
though  a  burden  had  been  lifted. 

"  Now  Fve  shown  you  my  soul,"  he  said. 

Muriel  stirred.  Throughout  his  simple  confession  she 
[877] 


BARRY    GORDON 

had  stood  motionless,  drooping  like  a  dying  flower,  as 
if  this  weight  he  was  casting  off  was  descending  grad- 
ually on  her. 

When  at  last  she  raised  her  head  he  saw  that  she 
had  become  resigned  to  his  going.  Her  eyes  were  filled 
with  tears.  Evidently  she  could  scarcely  trust  herself  to 
speak.  But  when  finally  she  did  reply,  her  voice  was 
full  of  courage  and  spirited  sympathy  as  if  she  under- 
stood. 

"  Barry,  you're  right.  It's  your  only  chance — your 
one  salvation !  " 

To  her  surprise  he  laughed. 

"  Salvation  ?  Muriel,  no,"  he  said  ironically,  her  sur- 
render curiously  embittering  him.  "  Don't  accuse  me  of 
hunting  for  a  passkey  to  the  back  door  of  heaven.  How 
do  you  think  I  would  look  in  a  halo  ?  Ten  to  one  I'd 
wear  it  over  one  ear ! " 

His  bitter  levity  had  no  effect  on  her.  Behind  it  she 
saw,  as  never  before,  the  man  himself. 

"  Barry,"  she  said  quietly,  ignoring  his  outburst, 
"  you're  to  have  an  escort,  aren't  you  ?  When  will  you 
come  back?  Tell  me  there  isn't  much  danger." 

Again  he  averted  his  eyes,  but  his  answer  was  light 
and  reassuring. 

"  Danger  ?  Why  should  there  be  ?  I've  got  a  pass- 
port." 

At  these  words,  suddenly,  as  if  in  response,  several 
[278] 


BARRY  GORDON 

shots  rang  out  in  quick  succession.  Then  came  a  beating 
of  drums. 

They  both  started  and  glanced  in  the  direction  of 
the  clamour. 

The  sight  that  met  their  eyes  was  familiar  to  Barry, 
but  strange  and  terrifying  to  Muriel. 

Across  the  deserted  market-place  a  small  company  of 
natives  was  passing  slowly  out  of  the  town.  The  proces- 
sion, though  slow,  was  riotous  with  motion  and  noise. 
It  was  led  by  figures  that  seemed  crazed.  They  were 
dancing  savagely  and  with  mad  gyrations,  their  white 
robes  whirling  like  driven  clouds,  their  arms  aloft,  their 
great  gaunt  hands  flourishing  lengthy  Moorish  guns, 
flinging  them  up,  spinning  them,  catching  them  on  high, 
and  discharging  them  thunderously  as  if  in  mid-air. 

So  incessant  was  this  discharge  that  over  the  entire 
procession  trailed  clouds  of  smoke  turned  by  the  sun 
to  a  fiery  mass. 

Behind  the  frantic  leaders  came  musicians  giving 
forth  weird  and  ghostly  sounds ;  and  behind  the  musi- 
cians a  mule  richly  harnessed  and  bearing  on  his  back 
a  large  cabinet  draped  with  flaming  silks. 

The  rear  was  brought  up  by  stragglers  leaping  and 
shrieking  hideously. 

The  whole  thing  was  unearthly,  ferocious,  and  mena- 
cing; appallingly  indicative  of  the  savagery  of  these 
people  in  moments  of  unrestraint. 

[279] 


BARRY  GORDON 

Barry's  mare,  akin  to  it  all,  grew  restless  and  pawed 
the  ground.  Her  large  eyes  gazed  at  the  human  storm. 
Her  ears  were  lifted,  her  nostrils  dilated,  her  body  quiv- 
ering with  excitement.  She  thrust  her  nose  under 
Barry's  arm. 

He  laughed  dryly.  But  Muriel  had  drawn  close  to  his 
side  and  was  clinging  to  him,  her  eyes  blinded  by  the 
powder-flashes,  her  ears  deafened  by  the  shots.  She  was 
pallid  as  death.  He  heard  her  breathing  fast. 

Slowly  and  unconsciously  he  put  an  arm  about  her. 

"  It  isn't  anything  to  be  afraid  of,"  he  said  quieting- 
ly.  "  They  are  firing  blank  charges.  They  call  it  '  laab 
el  barnd.'  It's  merely  powder-play — a  way  of  cele- 
brating. That's  a  wedding  party.  They're  taking  the 
bride  to  the  groom's  home.  She's  in  that  box  on  the 
mule."  He  drew  a  sigh.  "  God  pity  women,"  he  said, 
"  the  world  over !  " 

The  procession  was  now  leaving  the  market-place,  and 
soon  the  tempest  of  noise,  colour  and  motion  had  passed. 
In  the  distance  the  yells  and  gun-shots  were  dying  away. 
But  Muriel,  her  spirit  now  at  the  mercy  of  her  senses, 
was  still  trembling.  The  sight  of  those  savage  fanatics, 
so  expert  with  their  weapons  and  in  every  way  so  hor- 
ribly eloquent  of  destructive  force,  made  her  heart  sink 
and  her  pluck  fail. 

The  sun  was  now  half  lost  behind  the  western  sky- 
line. 

[280] 


BARRY  GORDON 

Barry  withdrew  his  arm  from  about  her  and  looked 
toward  the  town  expectantly.  Muriel,  understanding, 
turned  and  faced  him,  looked  up  at  him  with  beseeching 
eyes. 

"  Barry,  I  can't  let  you  go,"  she  sobbed.  "  These 
people  are  murderous,  terrible.  Oh,  I  can't  let  you  go ! 
Wait  at  least  a  few  moments.  Come  and  find  out  what 
father  has  done,  I  implore  you." 

His  gaze  was  still  sternly  set  toward  the  town,  as  if 
he  could  not  trust  himself  to  look  down  at  her. 

"  No,"  he  said ;  "  if  I  waited,  I  might  be  too  late." 

"Too  late?  Why?" 

"  I  might — that's  all.  Don't  ask  me,  Muriel." 

"  I  must  ask  you.  Tell  me  why,  Barry.  It  isn't  fair 
to  go  like  this,  without  telling  me,  without  explaining. 
I  won't  let  you.  I  can't !  Oh,  Barry !  " 

He  had  thought  to  spare  her,  but  his  silence  he  saw 
was  crueller  than  candour. 

"  Muriel,"  he  said,  "  this  is  the  reason :  Tom's  in  the 
gravest  peril.  They  may  at  any  moment  take  his  life." 

As  he  said  it  he  felt  that  her  last  hope  was  crushed, 
her  last  plea  withdrawn.  In  spite  of  himself,  he  looked 
down  at  her  and  saw  in  the  now  dense  gloom  such  a 
piteous  figure,  a  face  so  stained  with  tears,  so  pallid  with 
suffering,  so  ghost-like  in  the  shadows  reaching  out  to 
grasp  her,  that  his  heart  seemed  suddenly  to  crack  and 
break. 

[281] 


BARRY    GORDON 

She  drew  back  into  the  shadow.  He  and  his  horse 
stood  just  beyond  in  the  open  glow.  The  mare  had 
raised  her  head  and  was  gazing  toward  the  town.  Barry, 
too,  had  turned  and  was  waiting,  tense  in  every  line. 

Muriel  once  more  came  close  to  him.  But  he  stood 
straight,  shackling  himself  with  his  will  power. 

Suddenly  the  mare  started  forward,  tugged  on  the 
reins  and  began  to  whinny. 

Barry,  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  strained  them 
toward  a  distant  gate.  Muriel  followed  his  gaze  half 
blindly  through  her  tears. 

Out  into  the  open  rode  a  pair  of  ruffianly  natives, 
heavily  armed.  Seeing  him,  they  halted  midway  in  the 
market-place  and  waited. 

Barry  turned  to  Muriel,  and  she  saw  him  sway. 

"  Muriel,"  he  repeated  brokenly,  "  help  me  to  do  this 
thing!" 

Dazed  by  his  appeal,  she  drew  back  a  step  into  the 
shadows. 

The  strain  on  him  eased.  His  face  was  filled  with  a 
calm  light. 

"  Dear  Muriel,"  he  said  in  a  voice  now  very  quiet, 
"  you  have  shown  me  a  vision  few  men  see." 

Those  were  his  last  words  as  he  left  her.  Turning  he 
thrust  his  foot  in  the  stirrup  and  swung  up  lightly  into 
the  saddle. 

In  a  moment  he  had  joined  his  escort.  Between  them 
[282] 


BARRY    GORDON 

he  rode  slowly  up  the  hill.  He  did  not  look  back.  For 
an  instant  on  the  brow  of  the  slope  the  mounted  figures 
stood  out  boldly  against  the  sky;  then  they  descended 
beyond  the  crest  and  Barry  had  left  her. 

Long  she  stood  there  numbly  gazing  at  the  vacant 
sky";  stood  there  while  the  shadows  crept  across  the 
market-place  and  the  gloom  under  the  trees  deepened 
from  purple  to  black ;  stood  there  till  at  last  she  heard 
a  long,  low,  monotonous  call  issuing  from  the  town.  It 
was  not  sudden,  this  call,  but  seemed  to  grow  gradually 
out  of  the  silence,  as  though  the  voice  had  been  calling 
eternally,  yet  was  now  audible  for  the  first  time. 

Glancing  toward  the  town,  she  saw  the  figure  of  the 
muezzin  in  the  tower  of  the  mosque,  a  figure  very  small 
in  the  distance  but  leaning  out  commandingly  ovei-  the 
world.  He  was  calling  the  faithful  to  prayer. 

Muriel  knelt  alone  in  the  shadows. 


[283] 


CHAPTER    IV 

THE   RIDE.       CASSIM  AND   ACHMET.       NIGHT   ON   THE   EDGE 
OF  A  CONTINENT.      A  MOCKING  VOICE 

THE  ride  seemed  to  Barry  slower  and  more  ar- 
duous than  any  in  the  past.  Before  now  he  had 
known  the  racking  wear  and  tear  of  lonely 
journeys  through  this  roadless  land.  Often  he  had  fol- 
lowed similar  African  trails — rough,  world-old  tracks 
full  of  hummocks  and  hoof-holes.  More  than  once  in 
the  rainy  season  he  had  seen  mules  bogged  belly-deep 
in  the  quagmire  and  left  to  die.  More  than  once  in  the 
summer,  when  the  holes  were  baked  by  the  sun  into  hard 
pitfalls,  he  had  seen  a  horse  suddenly  stumble,  had  heard 
a  leg-bone  snap.  And  because  the  native  riders  would 
not  waste  powder  and  ball  to  save  these  stricken  beasts, 
he  himself  had  ended  their  pain. 

But  with  all  these  misadventures,  he  had  never  till 
now  felt  so  keenly  the  irk  of  slow  and  careful  riding. 
Hitherto  he  had  always  had  time  and  to  spare.  He 
had  been  an  idle  wanderer,  as  truly  nomadic  as  all  the 
countless  generations  of  men  and  burdened  animals  who 
had  beaten  these  trails  into  the  earth.  He  had  moved  from 
place  to  place  as  if  in  a  sleep,  taking  no  thought  of  the 

[284] 


BARRY    GORDON 

morrow.  But  to-day  his  impatience  kept  him  stark 
awake. 

After  skirting  the  town,  the  natives  halted  in  a  wood 
and,  dismounting,  bade  him  do  likewise.  Then  they 
stripped  him  and  searched  him  for  weapons.  This  done, 
the  ride  was  resumed,  one  in  the  lead  as  guide,  the  other 
in  the  rear  to  keep  watch  on  Barry. 

They  were  rugged  mountaineers,  these  men — about  as 
wild  and  murderous-looking  a  pair  as  he  had  ever  seen. 

His  years  of  dangerous  travel  had  trained  his  eye 
to  read  faces  quickly  but  with  care.  This  he  had  already 
done  in  the  present  instance.  Upon  first  riding  up  to 
them  in  the  market-place  he  had  caught  a  sharp  im- 
pression of  the  two,  and  now  after  several  hours  he 
thought  he  had  a  working  knowledge  of  their  char- 
acters. 

The  one  who  had  taken  the  lead  was  the  older — a  tall, 
gaunt  man,  Cassim  by  name.  From  under  his  turban  a 
great  tangle  of  grizzled  hair  rioted  over  his  neck  and 
shoulders.  His  grim  visage,  framed  by  this  coarse 
and  uncouth  mane,  looked  like  a  rock  in  a  thicket. 
He  was  mounted  on  a  bay  charger  and  carried  a  na- 
tive gun.  At  his  waist  Barry  saw  the  hilts  of  a  brace 
of  daggers. 

The  man  in  the  rear,  by  name  Achmet,  was  less  im- 
pressive. Perched  high  on  a  travelling  pack  on  a  mangy 
mule,  he  looked  every  inch  an  African  derelict,  a  worth- 

[285] 


BARRY  GORDON 

less  drifter,  his  flat,  pock-marked  face  sapped  bloodless 
by  sensuality,  his  blear  eyes  the  eyes  of  the  confirmed 
kief-smoker  and  hasheesh-eater. 

This  Achmet,  Barry  decided,  was  Ibrahim's  one  mis- 
take. Through  him  the  thing  must  be  done. 

The  track  wound  between  long  stretches  of  olive  trees 
and  scrub  aloe.  As  darkness  fell,  the  going  was  very 
difficult.  Even  when  the  moon  rose  over  the  mountains 
ahead,  every  step  was  a  risk.  The  play  of  its  beams  with 
the  shadows  made  the  way  so  tricky  that  every  foot 
of  it  had  to  be  watched. 

All  that  night  and  the  next  day  they  pushed  onward. 

As  they  rode,  boys  came  out  from  the  zereebas,  pip- 
ing on  reeds  and  crying  after  Barry  gay  curses. 

"  N'zrani !  Christian !  Dog  and  son  of  a  dog ! "  they 
mocked,  calling  to  others,  "  Come  and  see  the  Naz- 
arene." 

Then  Achmet  in  the  rear  would  drowsily  wave  them 
back  with  taunts  insulting  to  Moorish  youths. 

"  Schwei !  Schwei !  Go  to  your  mothers,"  he  would 
drone.  "  Spawn  of  fleas !  " 

But  soon  the  zereebas  and  flat  country  were  left  be- 
hind. The  riders  had  reached  the  foot-hills.  Hour  after 
hour  they  rode  in  single  file  without  a  word.  Then  the 
scene  became  wilder,  bolder.  They  were  in  the  mountains. 
Hour  after  hour  they  pushed  onward  and  upward,  the 
ascent  growing  constantly  more  precipitous,  until  at 

[286] 


BARRY  GORDON 

last  they  gained  a  small  plateau  overlooking  the  Medi- 
terranean. 

It  was  again  night.  The  moon  sailed  high  over  the 
peaks.  Far  below  lay  the  sea  like  a  silver  ribbon.  Here 
and  there  huge  rocks  jutted  out  of  the  earth.  Here  and 
there  old  mountain  oaks  loomed  rugged  and  full  of 
shadows. 

Cassim's  bay  leader  evidently  recognised  a  familiar 
resting  place.  Blown  and  spent  by  the  rough  climb  he 
balked  and  would  go  no  farther. 

The  mutiny  spread  at  once  to  Barry's  mare  and  the 
mule.  The  gray,  still  spirited,  halted,  snorted,  reared  and 
shied  at  shadows,  but  would  take  not  a  step  forward. 

As  for  the  mule,  it  seemed  to  have  struck  root  and 
stood  as  fixed  as  the  oaks  and  rocks.  Achmet,  sliding 
down  from  the  pack,  belaboured  the  beast's  flanks  with 
his  gun-stock. 

"  Son  of  a  pig !  "  he  cried.  "  On !  on !  spawn  of  ver- 
min." His  oaths  were  vain.  He  turned  to  Barry  and 
Cassim,  who  were  now  dismounting.  "  They  smell  the 
fandak." 

Cassim  nodded. 

"  Ihyeh,  the  fandak.  Let  us  camp  there.  He  who 
spares  his  beast  gains  his  goal  the  quicker."  He  led  the 
way  through  a  strip  of  oaks  and  palmetto  scrub. 

Here  the  plateau  expanded  widely,  and  from  all  direc- 
tions vague  trails  converged  to  a  common  centre — the 

[287] 


BARRY  GORDON 

fandak.  Barry  had  seen  many  of  these  enclosed  stock- 
ades, but  none  so  desolate  or  ancient  as  this,  which  to 
judge  by  its  decay  must  have  dated  back  to  the 
days  when  piracy  had  flourished  on  the  sea  below. 
Doubtless  the  Rif  pirates  had  built  the  place.  Ever  and 
anon  swooping  down  on  coastwise  voyagers  and  climb- 
ing back  burdened  with  booty,  they  had  felt  the  need 
of  half-way  shelters  between  the  sea  and  their  mountain 
lairs.  Doubtless  many  a  captain  of  a  rakish  korsan  had 
lodged  here,  and  with  him  his  murderous  crew.  But  since 
the  decline  of  that  bold  sea-brigandage  the  fandak  had 
been  put  to  tamer  use.  Though  to-night  it  happened  to 
be  deserted,  evidently  on  many  recent  nights  it  had 
housed  wayfarers  bound  God  knew  whence  or  whither. 
As  Barry  followed  Cassim  and  Achmet  under  the  arch, 
he  noticed  that  the  place  still  reeked  with  the  smell  of 
recent  occupants — men  and  mules  and  horses  who  had 
spent  the  night  here  and  slept  together  and  fed  together 
and  then  resumed  their  restless  wandering — nomads 
all. 

As  in  most  fandaks,  the  middle  of  the  inclosure  was 
open  to  the  sky,  but  a  cloistral  passage,  roofed  to  afford 
protection  against  inclement  weather,  margined  the  open 
space. 

This  dark  passage  was  evidently  familiar  to  Cassim 
and  Achmet.  They  seemed  to  have  proprietary  rights 
in  the  fandak.  Straightway  they  went  to  an  oaken  door 

[288] 


BARRY    GORDON 

at  a  corner,  and  Cassim  drew  from  under  his  haik  a  large 
key.  Opening  the  door  he  entered  a  closet  and  brought 
out  a  feed  of  straw  for  the  horses  and  mule.  Meanwhile 
Achmet,  who  had  entered  with  him,  emerged  with  a 
brazier  full  of  charcoal,  and,  undoing  his  pack,  set 
about  preparing  a  meal. 

"  I  go  a  moment,"  said  Barry  in  Arabic,  "  to  think 
and  be  alone." 

Cassim  bowed  consent. 

Barry  drifted  from  the  fandak.  Passing  through  the 
strip  of  oaks  and  palmetto  scrub  he  came  out  again  on 
the  open  ledge  where  they  had  dismounted.  Here  on  a 
rock  he  seated  himself  and  made  his  final  plans. 

Where  these  mountaineers  were  taking  him  he  could 
not  guess.  It  might  be  even  to  Beni  Aloo,  a  town  no 
Christian  had  ever  entered — save  one. 

A  shadow  crossed  Barry's  face.  He  remembered  a  low- 
bred Berber  woman  in  the  streets  of  Beni  Aloo ;  also  a 
high-bred  Berber  woman  on  a  roof  in  Beni  Aloo — one 
of  those  far  flat  roofs  where  intoxicating  odours  and 
the  plaintive  music  of  the  gimbri  snare  the  senses,  and 
women  clandestinely  unveil. 

He,  the  beggar  woman,  had  been  charitably  received 
that  evening  by  the  lady  on  the  roof  in  Beni  Aloo.  But 
the  end  had  been  a  nightmare. 

Whether  or  not  he  was  now  bound  for  this  or  any 
other  familiar  locality  he  could  not  tell.  In  the  old  days 

[289] 


BARRY    GORDON 

he  had  come  from  the  southeast.  Now  he  was  coming 
from  the  west,  and  the  look  of  it  all  was  different. 

One  thing,  though,  was  certain.  He  was  going  again 
into  the  country  of  the  Kabyles  or  hill  tribes.  He  was 
again  on  the  move  in  that  hazardous  intrusion  which  few 
foreigners  had  attempted  and  still  fewer  survived. 

But  how  differently  he  was  going  now.  No  excitement, 
no  hidden  weapons,  no  adventurous  disguise.  Merely  a 
decision  in  his  mind,  cold  and  irrevocable.  Even  the  fast, 
warm-blooded  ride  he  had  hoped  for  had  been  denied 
him.  The  test  was  demanding  the  calmest,  sanest  forces 
of  character. 

Far  below  him  lay  the  sea  like  a  silver  serpent 
stretched  dead  in  the  moonlight.  All  about  him  over  this 
pale  warm  Muslim  world  the  air  pulsed  subtly,  as  if  with 
the  beating  of  Allah's  heart.  Here  and  there  a  flood  of 
moonlight  threw  out  into  relief  many  mountain  crags 
and  serried  ridges.  Here  and  there  it  was  crossed  by 
black  ravines  and  canons — great  gashes  of  shadow. 
From  one  or  two  fell  infinitesimal  gleaming  streams  that 
trickled  outward  into  the  gloom. 

Everywhere  the  enchantment  of  the  Moorish  night — 
the  old  indescribable  enchantment  in  which  he  could 
never  lose  himself  again. 

Ah,  yes  he  could!  He  could  lose  himself  here  for  all 
eternity.  Here  between  the  pillars  of  Hercules,  here  in 
the  garden  of  the  Hesperides,  he  would  lie  at  rest.  Here 

[290] 


BARRY  GORDON 

his  soul,  like  an  ancient  voyager,  would  venture  forth 
on  "  the  stream  of  ocean." 

But,  oh,  that  Muriel  had  known  these  African  night- 
hours  with  him !  Oh,  that  he  had  been  permitted  to  melt 
into  this  midnight,  not  in  death  but  in  love!  Oh,  that 
their  mutual  pulses  might  but  once  have  contributed 
to  this  vast  pulsation !  Oh,  that  their  hearts  had 
throbbed  but  a  moment  in  unison  with  the  divine  heart 
that  stirred  this  air! 

But  no  such  rapture  was  permitted  man.  Only  the 
Muslim  paradise  afforded  it. 

While  he  sat  there,  the  Mohammedan  spirit  in  every 
masculine  nature  awoke  in  him,  and  the  spirit  of  the 
Christian  grew  cold.  It  was  not  Mahomet  who  had 
said,  "  Greater  love  hath  no  man  than  this,  that  a 
man  lay  down  his  life  for  his  friends."  To  Mahomet  a 
man's  life  and  a  man's  love  were  his  own  here  and 
hereafter. 

Oh,  if  the  Christian  spirit,  crueller  by  far  than  the 
other,  had  been  less  firmly  rooted  in  his  western  nature ! 
But  here  it  was,  cold  and  dull,  to  be  sure,  and  almost 
mechanical,  yet  inexorable  as  death. 

He  heard  a  footstep. 

"  Sidi." 

He  turned. 

Achmet  stood  behind  him. 

"  Sidi,  I  have  cooked  a  meal." 
[291] 


BARRY    GORDON 

Barry  rose. 

"Why  do  you  call  me  'sir'?"  he  said  bitterly. 
"  Why  don't  you  call  me  a  dog  of  a  Christian  ?  " 

Achmet  gazed  off  vacantly  into  the  moonlight. 

"  We  are  poor,"  he  answered,  "  but  you  Roumi  have 
money  to  buy  kief  and  hasheesh."  He  shot  a  glance  at 
Barry  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye.  The  look  was  crafty, 
dangerous,  criminal. 

Barry  smiled. 

"  Yes,  Achmet,  but  not  with  me,  not  on  my  person. 
Nevertheless,  of  what  I  have  in  Tangier  enough  shall 
be  yours  to  buy  kief  and  hasheesh  for  the  rest  of  your 
days.  That  won't  be  long,"  he  added  dryly,  "  if  you 
keep  at  it." 

Achmet  turned  and  regarded  him  dazedly. 

"  Allah  knows  I  cannot  be  bought,"  he  said,  the  light 
of  a  long-lost  manhood  flickering  in  his  blear  eyes. 
"  Ihyeh !  Ihyeh !  Allah  knows !  " 

"  I  suggest  no  dishonourable  purchase,"  said  Barry 
coldly,  "  no  real  breach  of  contract.  Doubtless  you  know 
of  my  bargain  with  Ibrahim.  It  admits  an  American 
to  the  captive  and  guarantees  an  American  a  safe  re- 
turn. Good!  What  matter  that  it  says  the  American? 
To-day  7  am  the  American — you  understand?  But  to- 
morrow on  the  ride  back  another  may  be  the  American 
— you  understand  ?  " 

Achmet  gazed  at  him  stupidly  and  shook  his  head. 
[292] 


BARRY    GORDON 

"  No,  Sidi ;  but  if  it  is  no  breach  and  thou  wilt  fatten 
my  purse  with  much  kief-money,  the  thing  is  done." 

Barry  nodded. 

"  You  will  be  paid  on  your  return  to  Tangier.  Now 
what  of  Cassim  ?  " 

Achmet  smiled. 

"  Cassim  smokes  little  kief,  eats  little  hasheesh,  but 
he  fights,  he  kills." 

Again  Barry  nodded. 

"  I  see  he  carries  a  native  carbine.  How  about  a  Lee- 
Metford  or  Winchester?  " 

Achmet  chuckled. 

"  For  the  price  of  a  rifle  like  Ali  Hamed's,"  he  said, 
"  Cassim  would  sell  to  thee  his  horse  and  his  wives." 

Barry  laughed  dryly. 

"  I  shall  have  no  use  for  either,"  he  said.  "  My  de- 
mand is  trifling.  Come ! "  He  led  the  way  back  to  the 
stockade. 

There,  while  the  mule  and  horses  munched  their  straw 
on  the  fandak  cobbles,  the  three  men  in  the  cloistral 
passage  drank  thick  black  coffee  of  Achmet's  brewing 
and  fed  upon  a  chicken  he  had  stewed  over  the  brazier. 
This  and  a  few  dried  figs  and  cakes,  sodden  and  tough 
as  cow-hide,  constituted  their  first  and  last  meal  be- 
tween Tangier  and  their  destination. 

After  they  had  finished  they  fell  to  smoking,  Cassim 
and  Achmet  kief  in  their  long  pipes,  Barry  a  cigarette. 

[293] 


BARRY    GORDON 

Now  he  unfolded  his  plan  to  them  in  detail.  The 
project  was  luckily  simple  and  suggested  no  lapse  from 
their  primitive  code.  Achmet,  smoking  dreamily,  and 
now  and  then  resorting  to  a  small  embossed  hasheesh 
cup  beside  him,  was  soon  so  befuddled  by  his  vice,  so 
given  over  to  its  somnolent  delights,  that  thoughts  of 
an  endless  supply  of  them  seemed  to  fill  him  with  a  rare 
rapture.  And  as  for  Cassim,  the  choice  of  a  Lee-Metford 
or  Winchester,  in  exchange  for  so  trifling  a  service, 
fairly  transfigured  his  grim  countenance.  A  single  move 
against  the  interests  of  Ali  Hamed  he  might  not  have 
made  for  untold  wealth,  but  the  scheme  was  utterly 
harmless.  It  was  as  if  he  had  seen  paradise. 

Barry,  reading  their  faces  by  the  light  of  a  candle 
lantern  which  Achmet  had  hung  over  him,  played  on 
their  pet  weaknesses  until  the  deal  was  closed.  In  the 
matter  of  pandering  to  Achmet's  vices  he  had  not  a 
qualm.  The  poor  dog  would  get  kief  and  hasheesh  if 
he  had  to  do  murder  for  it;  and  as  for  Cassim,  if  kill 
he  would,  he  could  kill  more  painlessly  with  a  Win- 
chester than  a  native  blunderbuss. 

The  affair  settled,  Achmet  was  for  slinging  a  cot 
for  Barry  in  the  cloister ;  but  the  air  was  so  fetid  under 
the  low  roof  that  Barry  declined,  and  sat  through  the 
night  in  the  fandak  entrance,  his  back  against  the  wall, 
his  sleepless  staring  eyes  every  now  and  again  on  the 
squatting  figures  under  the  lantern. 

[294] 


Barry  played  on  their  pet  weaknesses  until 
the  deal  was  closed 


BARRY    GORDON 

His  vigil  reminded  him  of  that  night,  seemingly  cen- 
turies ago,  when  he  had  watched  over  Tom  in  the  Beek- 
mans'  barn,  and  had  wakened  to  find  Muriel  gazing 
at  him  out  of  the  heart  of  the  dawn. 

What  a  different  to-morrow  now  awaited  him ! 

When  at  last  it  came  and  the  sun  climbed  above  the 
distant  ranges  toward  Algeria,  the  travellers  resumed 
their  march. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  Cassim  called  a  halt  within 
sight  of  a  lofty  and  small  white  town,  so  like  many  an- 
other eyrie  in  these  mountains  that  Barry  could  not 
determine  whether  or  not  he  had  ever  before  seen  it. 
Certainly  not  from  this  approach. 

At  a  word  from  Cassim  Barry  dismounted,  and  Ach- 
met,  drawing  from  the  mule-pack  a  long  djellab  or 
hooded  mantle  of  rough  gray  cotton  stuff,  threw  it  over 
Barry's  shoulders.  This  was  an  expedient  which  Barry 
himself  had  often  adopted.  It  protected  a  foreigner 
from  curiosity  caused  by  European  costume.  Doubtless 
Ibrahim  had  ordered  it,  fearing  the  unruly  spirits  in 
Ali's  band.  But  the  next  expedient  was  not  so  pleasant. 
Achmet  drew  from  the  pack  a  strip  of  greasy  shoddy 
and  tossed  it  to  Cassim.  Cassim  then  bound  it  about 
Barry's  eyes  and,  drawing  forward  the  hood,  helped  him 
up  again  into  the  saddle.  This  done  Cassim  remounted, 
grasped  the  gray's  bridle,  and  led  on  up  a  sharp  ascent. 

Finally  he  drew  rein  and,  taking  Barry's  passport 
[295] 


BARRY    GORDON 

from  him,  again  dismounted.  For  a  moment  Barry  was 
left  in  black  suspense.  He  was  dimly  conscious  that  Ach- 
met  stood  at  the  horse's  head  and  that  several  low  voices 
were  murmuring  not  far  away.  Once  he  heard  a  low 
exultant  laugh. 

Blind  and  helpless  he  waited.  Then  at  last  an  ironical 
voice  close  at  hand  said  resonantly: 

"  Marhabba  bi  kum — welcome  to  thee,  N'zrani !  " 

He  was  now  ordered  to  dismount,  some  one  led  away 
his  horse,  and  the  passport  was  lightly  thrust  back 
under  his  cloak. 

Then  the  voice  said : 

"  Guide  him  to  our  guest,  unblind  him,  and  leave  them 
together.  But  wait  near." 


[296] 


CHAPTER    V 


THE   CAVE   AND   ITS    OCCUPANT.  GREATER    LOVE    HATH 

NO    MAN    THAN    THIS  " 


THEN  began  a  descent  of  some  sharp  declivity, 
Cassim  and  Achmet  supporting  Barry  each  at 
an  arm  and  guiding  his  steps. 

When  at  last  they  stopped  and  withdrew  his  blind- 
fold, he  found  himself  on  a  wide  ledge  or  shelf  of  rock 
that  jutted  out  from  the  mountain-side.  This  projection 
was  the  narrowest  and  most  dangerous  pass  he  had  ever 
seen.  On  the  one  hand  rose  a  sheer  black  cliff  seemingly 
to  the  sky ;  on  the.  other — nothing. 

Barry  instinctively  glanced  over  the  edge.  Far  below 
him  lay  a  vast  chaos  of  moonlight  and  shadow,  shapes 
of  crags  and  ledges  and  giant  primeval  oaks;  voids 
where  gorges  were  and  the  gloom  hung  dense;  then 
rolling  ridges  coastward.  Beyond  and  below  all  this  he 
saw  the  sea,  laid  like  a  sword  significantly  between  the 
sleeping  continents. 

He  turned  toward  the  mountain-side  and  glanced  up. 
Just  where  he  stood  the  pass  deepened  considerably,  but 
not  enough  to  yield  him  a  view  of  the  town  nestled  some- 
where amid  the  peaks  above  him. 

[297] 


BARRY    GORDON 

As  he  lowered  his  glance  it  fell  on  a  patch  of  white 
wall  abutting  from  the  cliff.  In  the  middle  of  this  wall 
he  saw  an  oaken  door.  Cassim  with  a  large  key  was 
fumbling  at  the  lock.  Beside  Cassim  stood  Achmet 
holding  his  candle-lantern  above  the  keyhole. 

Stunned  by  horror  at  sight  of  this  tomb-like  cave, 
Barry,  as  if  in  a  nightmare,  stood  waiting.  Then  at 
last  the  massive  door  was  opened  and  the  two,  turning, 
motioned  him  to  enter. 

If  ever  he  had  seen  a  death-trap,  this  was  it.  If  ever 
he  had  stood  at  the  threshold  of  a  dangerous  interior, 
he  stood  there  now.  Yet  he  did  not  hesitate.  Anguished 
with  pity  for  Tom,  a  pity  that  tortured  his  heart  and 
suddenly  burned  awake  his  old,  long  dormant,  brother- 
ly love,  he  passed  swiftly  through  the  doorway. 

But  now  within  he  was  forced  to  pause,  checked  by 
the  gloom. 

At  one  side  in  the  rocky  wall  a  deep,  small  orifice, 
crossed  by  iron  bars,  formed  a  natural  window;  but  the 
moonlight  slanting  in  was  so  sickly,  the  one  streak  of 
it  across  the  cave  so  thin  and  pale,  that  it  only  deepened 
the  surrounding  darkness. 

This  darkness  was  further  intensified  by  a  silence, 
not  like  most  silences  merely  negative,  but  positive,  ag- 
gressive, and  sharp. 

Barry's  senses  seemed  to  be  stimulated  abnormally. 

Then  he  knew  why  the  silence  seemed  so  acute.  Just 
[£98] 


BARRY    GORDON 

as  the  darkness  was  intensified  by  the  streak  of  sickly 
moonbeams,  the  silence  was  intensified  by  an  almost  in- 
audible sound. 

He  listened.  He  thought  he  heard  a  breathing  and  a 
dripping — a  faint  distressed  breathing  and  a  slow  drip- 
ping. 

Straining  his  eyes  toward  the  corner  of  the  cave,  he 
thought  he  saw  on  the  ground  a  form  blacker  than  the 
general  blackness. 

The  sight  of  this  stricken  shape,  and  the  sound  of 
its  breathing  and  the  near-by  drip,  filled  his  mind  with 
subtle  horror,  his  heart  with  a  pity  that  was  agony. 
His  nerves,  greatly  in  need  of  sleep,  were  strained  almost 
to  breaking.  In  that  first  moment  he  felt  sickened,  as 
if  with  actual  nausea.  He  broke  into  a  cold  sweat.  His 
head  was  splitting.  His  body  was  shaken  by  a  chill. 
Then  it  burned. 

Fear?  Yes,  a  moment  of  exquisite  fear,  a  moment  at 
the  mercy  of  imagination,  a  moment  in  the  midst  of  a 
whirl  of  nightmare  stuff — gloom  and  flare;  silence, 
breathings,  drippings,  and  all  phantasmal  terrors. 

Fear?  Yes,  but  not  cowardice.  The  fear  was  full  of 
courage. 

With  an  effort  he  summoned  his  will  to  his  aid  and 
drew  himself  up  powerfully.  Then  the  fever  and  chill 
left  him — left  him  so  sane  and  calm  that  even  had  some 
poor  hideous  ghost  now  risen  half  fleshless  from  the 

[299] 


BARRY    GORDON 

grave,  he  could  have  comforted  it  with  a  large  com- 
passion. 

Achmet  brought  in  the  lantern,  handed  it  to  him, 
and  withdrew. 

Barry  held  it  aloft  and  looked  toward  the  corner. 

He  saw  a  man  huddled  there.  The  man  lay  on  a  ragged 
Moorish  cloak  spread  on  the  ground.  He  was  on  his 
side,  his  back  to  the  entrance,  his  knees  drawn  up,  his 
arms  flung  out,  and  his  face  buried  between  them.  He  was 
dressed  in  an  old  riding  suit  badly  torn  and  worn.  Every 
now  and  then  his  whole  body  twitched  mechanically. 
Not  far  from  where  he  lay  the  seepage  of  some  mountain 
spring  oozed  through  the  rock  above  and  fell  from  a 
ledge  in  glimmering  drops  to  the  ground.  Otherwise 
the  gloom  of  the  corner  was  unrelieved  save  for  a  small 
patch  of  radiance  where  the  lantern-light  touched  the 
man's  hair. 

Barry  drew  a  step  nearer,  holding  forward  the  lantern. 

The  hair  caught  the  light  and  shone  like  gold. 

No  finder  of  hidden  treasure,  no  digger  of  buried 
gold,  was  ever  more  thrilled  by  a  sudden  gleam  than 
Barry  was  then. 

Impetuously  he  started  forward,  but  stopped  short. 
The  shock  might  be  too  severe.  Tom's  twitching  was  the 
twitching  of  nervous  sleep.  Wake  him  too  suddenly  and 
the  nerves  might  snap.  In  Barry's  knockabout  life  he 
had  seen  even  joy  do  murder. 

[300] 


BARRY  GORDON 

Drawing  forward  the  hood  of  his  djellab,  he  set  down 
his  lantern,  went  quietly  to  Tom,  and  bending  over  him 
gently  touched  his  shoulder  without  speaking. 

Evidently  the  sleep  was  light  and  feverish.  Agitated 
even  by  this  soft  touch,  Tom  shifted,  woke  with  a  groan, 
and  looked  up.  But  the  light  was  behind  Barry,  and  the 
hood  of  his  Moorish  mantle  shaded  his  face. 

Tom  saw  nothing  unusual  in  his  visitor.  Wearily  he 
sank  down  again. 

"  What  do  you  want  now  ?  "  he  muttered.  "  Can't  you 
let  a  man  sleep?  Instead  of  waking  me,  why  didn't  you 
knock  me  on  the  head  and  kill  me?  As  you  didn't 
have  the  kindness  to  do  that,  for  God's  sake  let  me 
sleep." 

Barry  drew  back  heart-sick.  He  was  silent  a  moment. 
Then  he  said  all  Jbut  inaudibly : 

"  Tom." 

Tom,  rising  to  one  elbow,  stared  up  here  and  there 
toward  the  cavern  roof,  as  if  he  thought  the  voice  had 
come  from  a  spirit  hovering  over  him. 

"  Who  spoke  to  me?  "  he  asked.  "  Who—"  He  shook 
his  head  sceptically. 

Barry  moved  a  step  closer  and  again  said,  very  low: 

"  Tom." 

Tom's  face  was  haggard,  his  eyes  were  haunted  and 
bitter. 

"  The  same  old  maddening  dream ! "  he  muttered  to 
[301] 


BARRY  GORDON 

himself,  staring  into  vacancy.  "  The  same  crazy  illu- 
sion !  Perhaps  it  comes  when  they're  thinking  of  me — 
remembering  me — trying  to  find  me." 

Barry  drew  closer  still. 

"  Tom— old  man." 

Tom's  eyes  brightened  feverishly ;  his  cheeks  red- 
dened with  a  sudden  hectic  flush.  He  rose  to  an  alert 
half-sittingiposture,  the  palm  of  his  hand  on  the  ground. 

"Barry's  voice!  Yes,  go  on,  Barry.  I'm  listening. 
Talk  to  me." 

Apparently  he  thought  the  voice  came  from  an  un- 
seen visitor.  He  did  not  seem  to  connect  it  with  the 
cloaked  figure  beside  him.  Doubtless  to  his  dazed  mind 
this  figure  was  merely  one  of  his  captors  interrupting 
his  dearest  dream.  Impatiently  he  waved  away  the  in- 
truder. 

"  Leave  me  alone  here,  won't  you  ?  My  brother  is 
speaking  to  me.  If  you've  got  an  atom  of  heart,  don't 
wake  me." 

"  Tom,  you  are  awake.  Quick !  Get  up !  Don't  you 
want  to  be  free  ?  " 

Tom  smiled  bitterly,  still  gazing  into  vacancy. 

"  Free?  Oh,  you're  always  saying  that  in  these 
dreams.  What's  the  use  ?  Talk  to  me  about  home — about 
Muriel." 

Barry  winced  and  again  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder 
— this  time  with  a  firm  pressure. 

[302] 


BARRY    GORDON 

"  Tom,  for  God's  sake,  believe  the  reality  of  this ! 
Prove  it !  Look  at  me !  " 

Slowly,  unnaturally,  like  a  somnambulist  obedient  to 
an  outer  voice,  Tom  rose  to  his  feet  and,  nerving  himself, 
turned  to  gaze  at  the  speaker. 

Barry  shifted  his  position,  faced  him,  and,  throwing 
off  the  cloak,  stood  fully  revealed  in  the  lantern  light. 

Tom  trembled.  There  was  a  silence,  a  moment  of 
awakening  that  seemed  like  a  second  birth,  full  of  trav- 
ail and  upheaval.  It  was  nearly  ten  years  since  they  had 
seen  each  other,  more  than  two  since  Tom  had  left  home. 

"  Give  me  a  minute,"  he  said  feebly,  "  to  get  a  grip 
on  myself." 

They  stood  face  to  face,  separate  and  mute,  waiting 
for  the  strain  to  slacken. 

Finally  Tom  smiled,  but  the  smile  was  not  the  boyish 
smile  of  the  old  days.  The  sunshine  in  it,  once  cloudless, 
now  came  filtering  through  a  mist. 

"  Barry,"  he  said,  "  I  had  given  up  hope." 

Barry's  face  was  lined,  his  brows  were  drawn,  his  eyes 
were  darker  than  the  cavern. 

"  So  had  we,  but  it's  all  right  now." 

"  Is  it?  Thank  God!  Say  that  again,  Barry." 

They  moved  to  each  other  and  grasped  hands. 

"  It's  all  right  now,"  Barry  repeated  quietly.  "  Cas- 
sim  will  be  here  in  a  minute.  When  he  comes  you  are 
free." 

[303] 


BARRY  GORDON 

He  drew  apart  from  Tom  and  glanced  about  at  the 
rocky  walls. 

"  How  long  have  they  kept  you  in  this  hole  ?  " 

"  Not  long,  I  think.  We  are  always  on  the  move." 

"  Good !  Then  you're  not  prison-killed.  You're  well 
enough  to  ride  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Till  recently  they  have  treated  me  more  or 
less  tolerably.  It's  been  a  lazy,  torpid  life,  drifting 
from  place  to  place  with  AH  Hamed."  Tom's  look  was 
still  dazed,  his  faculties  inert.  "  All  the  time  I've  been 
getting  stupider,  duller,  more  despairing."  He  smiled 
mirthlessly.  "  Once  or  twice  there  came  a  break ;  once  or 
twice  they  cut  up  rough,  but  I  brought  it  on  myself." 

Barry  was  thinking,  planning. 

"  How?  "  he  asked  mechanically. 

A  spasm  of  pain  crossed  Tom's  worn  face. 

"  O  God !  sometimes  I  couldn't  stand  it.  I'm  not 
like  you,  Barry.  I  can't  mix  with  these  people.  A  little 
humour,  a  little  fatalism,  a  mere  spark  of  their  fire,  and 
I'd  have  won  their  friendship.  But  I'm  too  unlike  them ; 
it  wasn't  in  me.  One  night  I  tried  to  escape." 

Barry  was  thinking,  planning,  glancing  at  the  barred 
window,  the  massive  door. 

"Yes,  and  then?"  he  asked  mechanically. 

"  Oh,  then  we  had  a  mix-up.  There  was  only  one  of 
them  awake.  He  sat  smoking  kief.  I  must  have  been 
crazed,  murderous.  I  sprang  at  him.  Poor  devil,  his 

[304] 


BARRY    GORDON 

throat  still  looks  as  if  I  had  tried  to  hack  it  with  a  dull 
knife.  I  had  my  nails  buried  in  it,  but  he  managed  to 
choke  out  a  cry.  Then  the  rest  woke  up  and  would  have 
tortured  me  to  death,  but  Ali  Hamed  came  in  and  cursed 
them  away.  As  it  was,  they  had  about  done  for  me.  I've 
got  a  lot  of  dagger  wounds  still  open,  a  lot  of  black 
lumps  where  they  hammered  me  with  their  gun-stocks." 
The  shadow  lifted  from  his  face.  "  But  what's  all  that 
as  long  as  you  have  come?  "  His  eyes  brightened  with 
affectionate  fervour  and  admiration.  He  drew  nearer 
and  grasped  Barry's  hand  in  both  of  his  own.  "  I  knew 
if  any  one  found  me  it  would  be  you." 

The  look  and  tone  of  gratitude  grated  on  Barry.  He 
felt  that  he  was  utterly  unworthy  of  it.  He  shifted  and 
gently  withdrew  his  hand.  His  manner  grew  curter.  He 
stuck  to  his  thoughts  and  plans. 

"  Have  you  had  food  regularly  ?  " 

"  Yes,  such  as  it  was — gluey  bread,  dried  figs,  dates, 
and  their  sickening  kous-kous." 

"How  long  since?" 

"  Not  long." 

"  Good !  Then  you  can  keep  going.  Have  you  had 
much  sleep  ?  " 

"  Such  as  it  was — fever  and  nightmares — hideous  ab- 
surd nightmares.  One  night,  a  week  or  two  ago,  I 
dreamed  you  had  stabbed  me — you  of  all  people — and 
were  picking  my  pocket " — he  put  his  hand  on  his  heart 

[305] 


BARRY  GORDON 

— "just  here.  That's  what  comes  of  living  with  these 
ruffians.  You  get  dreaming  your  own  brother  is  a 
thief!" 

Barry  winced,  laughed  harshly,  then  pursued  his  clean- 
cut  course.  He  motioned  toward  the  seepage  in  the 
corner. 

"  Take  a  drink  of  water — plenty.  The  ride's  long,  the 
heat  shrivelling." 

Tom,  still  half  dazed,  crossed  to  the  damp  spot  and, 
turning  up  his  mouth,  let  the  drip  from  the  jut  of  rock 
trickle  into  it. 

Barry  went  to  the  door  and  looked  out  into  the  night. 
Close  at  hand  he  saw  a  shadow.  It  was  Achmet  leaning 
indolently  against  the  wall. 

"  Cassim  is  long  in  coming,"  said  Barry. 

"  Ihyeh,"  said  Achmet,  never  turning  his  drowsy  gaze 
from  vacancy.  "  The  horses  had  to  be  fed  and  watered." 

"  You  should  watch  the  mountain-side,"  said  Barry. 
"  Some  one  else  might  descend." 

Achmet,  moving  to  a  vantage-point,  shrugged  in- 
differently. 

"  Whoever  comes— comes,"  he  muttered.  "  The  thing 
is  in  Allah's  hands." 

Barry  nodded  and  turned  back.  These  words,  though 
murmured  by  a  kief-sodden  dreamer,  somehow  eased  his 
mind  and  lightened  his  heart.  The  thing  was  in  Allah's 
hands. 

[306] 


BARRY    GORDON 

When  Tom  turned  from  the  wet  rock  he  looked  re- 
freshed and  more  alert. 

"  That  dripping  has  been  horrible,"  he  said.  "  Some- 
times it  got  on  my  brain,  but  the  water  was  a  Godsend. 
It  must  be  a  spring." 

"  Yes.  What  town  are  we  under?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  think  you  must  have  been  here  be- 
fore. Only  an  hour  or  two  ago  some  native  woman  came 
to  the  window  and  spoke  your  name." 

Barry  started.  What  ghost  had  risen  out  of  his  past? 
It  seemed  as  if  nothing  he  had  done  would  ever  die. 

"  Did  she?  "  he  said.  "  What  was  hers?  " 

Tom  frowned  uncertainly.  At  last  he  answered : 

"  I  think  it  was  Naomi." 

Barry  looked  bewildered  and  incredulous. 

"  Naomi !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  No,  she  could  never  again 
be  in  this  region.  She  lives  somewhere  in  Tangier."  His 
brow  was  drawn ;  he  bit  his  lip.  "  Where  did  she  come 
from?" 

"  She  didn't  tell  me,"  replied  Tom.  "  When  she  saw 
her  mistake  she  vanished." 

Barry's  eyes  were  dark  with  perplexity. 

"  She  said  nothing?  " 

"  One  thing."  Tom's  face  went  a  shade  paler. 

"What?" 

"  She  said  Ali  was  going  to  have  me  shot." 

"When?" 

[307] 


BARRY  GORDON 

"  To-morrow." 

A  sigh  like  a  moan  broke  from  Barry's  heart.  Then 
it  was  true.  Ibrahim  had  not  deceived  him. 

"  If  you  hadn't  come,"  said  Tom,  "  I  believe  I'd  have 
died  gladly."  He  drifted  to  the  barred  orifice  in  the  rocks 
where  the  woman  had  spoken  to  him.  With  his  hand  on 
the  bars  he  looked  out  into  the  moonlit  world  as  if  to 
assure  himself  of  its  wide  liberty.  "  Tell  me,"  he  asked 
without  turning,  "  what  have  you  done?  How  have  you 
managed  it?  Are  they  getting  a  ransom?  " 

"  Yes — a  ransom." 

"What's  the  price?" 

"  Never  mind,  Tom.  Don't  worry  about  that." 

"  When's  the  payment?  Now?  " 

"  No — to-morrow." 

Tom  turned,  puzzled. 

"  I  don't  understand.  If  they  let  us  go  to-night, 
how " 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  a  shadow 
in  the  doorway. 

"  Cassim  is  coming,"  said  Achmet. 

Barry  caught  up  from  the  ground  the  voluminous 
cloak  on  which  Tom  had  lain,  and  quickly  threw  it  over 
his  brother's  shoulders. 

"  Cassim  and  Achmet,"  he  said,  "  will  take  you  to 
Tangier.  When  you  get  there,  give  them  each  fifty  dol- 
lars. It's  a  two  days'  ride,  but  you'll  have  fresh  horses. 

[308] 


BARRY    GORDON 

You'll  have  to  keep  going  without  sleep  or  food.  Re- 
member, Tom,  keep  going!  " 

Tom's  face  was  clouded  with  bewilderment. 

"  What  about  you  ?  Do  you  think  I'd  leave  you  here  ?  " 

•"Why  not?  Of  course!  Don't  bother  about  me.  I've 
got  a  passport." 

Barry's  easy  tone  and  mention  of  a  passport  seemed 
reassuring,  yet  it  went  against  the  grain  in  Tom  to 
start  first.  r 

"  Why  can't  we  leave  together  ?  " 

Barry  frowned  impatiently. 

"  Because  I've  got  to  stay  and  pay  the  ransom." 

"You  swear  that's  it?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  why  should  I  not  wait  with  you?  What's  one 
day  after  two  years  ?  " 

Barry  forced  a  smile. 

"  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  make  the  payment  be- 
fore you're  free?  Not  I!  If  I  did  they  might  go  back  on 
the  bargain.  That  would  be  a  mess.  They'd  have  the  ran- 
som and  you  too." 

Tom's  face  hardened  with  resolve. 

"  Then  let  them !  Blest  if  I  leave  you  in  this  trap ! " 

Barry  despaired.  He  had  feared  it.  He  knew  Tom. 

At  this  juncture  Cassim  hastily  strode  in. 

"  I  am  followed,"  he  said,  "  by  Ali  Hamed.  The  thing 
cannot  be  done." 

[309] 


BARRY    GORDON 

Barry  swore  under  his  breath,  caught  up  his  mantle, 
threw  it  about  him,  and  drew  the  hood  over  his  head. 
Then  for  a  moment  the  two  brothers,  cloaked  alike,  stood 
face  to  face. 

Barry  trembled,  breathing  hard,  racked  by  the  clash. 

"  Will  you  go?  " 

"No!" 

"  Don't  be  a  fool !  I  tell  you  I  have  a  passport." 

"  Are  you  sure  they  would  let  you  follow  me?  " 

"  Tom,  I  shall  leave  here  to-morrow." 

"You  swear  it?" 

"  Yes." 

But  Tom  could  not  bear  to  leave  him. 

"  How  can  you  swear  it  ?  They  might  keep  you.  What 
could  you  do  alone?  " 

"  Hark !  "  said  Achmet  suddenly. 

They  listened. 

Footsteps  crunching  on  dry  stubble  came  slowly  down 
the  pass. 

Driven  desperate,  Barry  drew  from  his  breast  Ibra- 
him's letter. 

"  This,"  he  whispered  to  Tom,  "  is  my  passport.  It 
guarantees  me  a  safe  return.  Unless  you  go,  I  destroy 
it." 

He  held  the  paper  in  both  hands  as  if  to  tear  it. 

"  Stop !  "  said  Tom.  "  You  swear  that  guarantees  you 
a  safe  return  to  Tangier  ?  " 

[310] 


BARRY    GORDON 


"  By  a  man  whose  guarantee  is  law  to  these  people?  " 

"  Yes.  Do  you  think  I'm  lying?  " 

"  No.  I'll  go." 

Barry  grasped  Tom's  hand  and  wrung  it. 

"  Thank  God  !  Good-bye,  Tom  !  " 

Cassim  drew  forth  the  band  of  greasy  shoddy  and 
blindfolded  Tom,  then  pulled  the  hood  farther  forward, 
masking  his  face  with  deep  shadows. 

The  footsteps  crunching  on  the  dry  stubble  drew 
closer  to  the  cave. 

"  Save  by  the  grace  of  Allah,"  said  Achmet  impas- 
sively, "  it  cannot  be  done." 

"  By  the  grace  of  Allah  it  shall  !  "  said  Barry,  no  less 
calmly  ;  and  he  slipped  the  passport  into  Achmet's  hand. 

Then  they  started,  and  just  outside  were  challenged 
by  a  low  resonant  voice. 

Barry  listened.  There  was  a  moment  of  dead  silence, 
then  they  were  evidently  allowed  to  pass.  He  heard  their 
footsteps  recede  and  die  away. 

But  Ali  was  still  near. 

Barry,  hearing  him  stir,  crossed  quickly  to  the  win- 
dow, not  to  look  out,  but  to  keep  his  back  to  the  entrance 
and  conceal  the  exchange. 

Ali,  entering  with  a  lantern,  stood  and  gazed  at  the 
hooded  figure. 

Barry  raised  his  hands  to  the  bars  as  he  had  seen  Tom 
[311] 


BARRY    GORDON 

raise  his,  and  gazed  out  as  he  had  seen  Tom  gaze  out. 
The  pose  was  excellent — typical  of  a  man  long  captive. 
And  the  cloak  hid  his  figure,  its  hood  his  dark  hair. 

But  Ali,  instead  of  turning,  drew  slowly  nearer. 

Barry's  blood  raced  in  his  veins.  His  heart  beat 
against  his  ribs.  He  broke  into  a  cold  sweat.  If  Ali 
discovered  the  trick  before  the  others  had  a  good  start, 
Tom  was  lost. 

Suddenly,  to  his  amazement,  Ali  laughed — softly, 
ironically. 

"  Turn,"  he  said,  "  or  I  shoot !  " 

The  game  was  up.  To  refuse  was  senseless.  Barry 
turned  and  faced  him. 

Ali  raised  the  lantern  a  moment,  scrutinised  him,  low- 
ered it  and  again  laughed. 

Barry  saw  at  once  that  this  famous  Berber  rebel  was 
still  in  his  prime.  Tall,  and  clad  in  a  pure  white  burnous 
that  fell  in  shimmering  folds  about  him,  he  looked  a 
princely  figure.  The  poise  of  his  head  was  autocratic,  but 
his  bearing  was  full  of  ease  and  grace,  and  his  eyes  glowed 
with  sardonic  humour.  Though  he  had  threatened  to 
shoot  he  had  drawn  no  weapon.  If  he  carried  one  at  all, 
it  was  under  his  burnous. 

For  a  moment  the  two  stood  mute,  face  to  face.  Then 
Ali  said  in  Arabic : 

"  Did  you  think  I  did  not  know  ?  Did  you  think  Ach- 
met  and  Cassim  would  not  tell  me?  Did  you  think  they 


BARRY  GORDON 

wanted  to  be  fed  to  the  dogs  ?  Not  they !  But  the  event 
is  happy,  the  exchange  unutterably  gratifying.  Never 
have  I  had  such  good  fortune.  To  me  it  means  more  than 
any  ransom.  Willingly  I  free  your  brother  and  accept 
you  in  his  stead."  He  folded  his  arms  with  judicial  calm- 
ness and  his  eyes  narrowed.  "  Some  years  ago,"  he  said, 
"  you  spent  an  evening  on  a  roof  in  Beni  Aloo."  His 
face  darkened  with  a  look  of  pain,  but  his  smile  was  iron- 
ical, his  voice  smooth  as  a  cat's  purr.  "  You  spent  that 
evening,  N'zrani,  with  Naomi,  the  bride  of  my  youth !  " 


[313] 


CHAPTER   VI 

THE    SPELL    OF    BARRY*S    SACRIFICE.       THE    AFRICAN 
GARDEN.       MURIEL  AND    TOM.       BLACK    MAGIC 

IT  was  the  first  day  after  Tom's  arrival  in  Tangier, 
the  third  since  he  had  left  Barry. 
At  a  window  of  their  room  in  the  Hotel  Granada 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Beekman  stood  side  by  side,  gazing  ab- 
sently toward  the  eastern  mountains.  Long  they  were 
silent  and  motionless.  For  once  Mrs.  Beekman  was  not 
the  creature  of  her  nerves  and  fussy  intellect.  At  last 
when  her  husband  turned  to  her,  the  change  impressed 
him.  The  lines  in  her  face  were  no  longer  puckered  with 
irritation.  They  had  relaxed  into  the  symmetry  of  unsel- 
fish sadness.  On  her  cheeks  there  was  a  faint  colour,  and 
her  mouth,  though  still  the  merest  ghost  of  a  Cupid's 
bow,  seemed  kinder.  But  the  deepest  change  was  in  her 
eyes.  Their  icy  blue  seemed  melted  by  an  inner  light.  For 
once  she  was  not  petulantly  repressing  her  latent  woman- 
liness. Tears  were  falling  as  if  from  a  fountain  at  last 
unsealed. 

As  he  turned  to  her,  she,  too,  noticed  a  change.  She 
saw  that  his  expression  had  mellowed,  saw  in  his  calm 

[314] 


BARRY  GORDON 

gray  eyes  profound  feeling,  and  on  his  passionless  lips 
a  tremor. 

"  Nowadays,"  he  said,  "  self-sacrifice  is  out  of  fashion. 
At  any  cost,  says  the  world,  grasp  happiness.  Greater 
folly  hath  no  man  than  this,  that  a  man  lay  down  his  life 
for  his  friends.  The  world  will  call  him  a  fool.  Let  it !  As 
for  me,  I  am  proud  to  have  known  that  fool  and  the 
thought  of  losing  him  is  more  than  I  can  bear." 

Mrs.  Beekman  drew  even  closer  to  her  husband. 

"  Do  you  think  there  is  no  hope  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  The  nearest  American  warship  is  at  Malta." 

"  But  the  native  troops " 

Again  he  shook  his  head. 

"  They've  tried  for  years  to  take  Ali  Hamed  and  have 
failed." 

He  put  an  arm  about  his  wife  and  drew  her  to  him, 
drew  her  head  down  on  his  shoulder.  Resting  against 
him,  she  wept  uncontrollably,  sobbing  out  the  heart  so 
long  stifled.  It  was  a  rare  moment,  a  mutual  moment 
perhaps  unprecedented  in  all  their  years  of  married  life. 
As  the  full  meaning  of  Barry's  sacrifice  came  to  them 
they  were  now  at  last  drawn  together,  and  knew  they 
t  would  never  again  be  separated.  All  unwittingly,  the 
prodigal  they  had  tried  to  redeem  was  the  cause  of  their 
own  redemption.  He  had  gone  to  throw  his  life  away  as 
lightly  as  a  boy  runs  to  the  sea  and  tosses  in  a  stone,  and 

[315] 


BARRY  GORDON 

a  like  elemental  energy  had  been  set  working  by  the  act. 
Outward  from  that  central  deed,  circles  were  already 
widening. 

When  Mr.  Beekman  bent  to  his  wife  and  she  gazed  up 
at  him,  their  look  seemed  to  obliterate  the  years.  They 
had  seen  a  vision  of  love. 

Far  on  an  eastward  road  Tom  and  Kitty  were  return- 
ing from  a  long  walk  toward  the  mountains,  whence  they 
had  hoped  against  hope  to  see  Barry  come.  It  was  even- 
ing, the  hour  between  sunset  and  moonrise,  and  the  dark 
had  so  deepened  that  even  Muriel,  who  had  preceded 
them  with  Hicks,  had  now  turned  and  was  following 
them  back  to  Tangier. 

"  Oh,  if  I  had  only  guessed  what  he  meant,"  said  Tom, 
"  when  he  told  me  he  was  going  to  pay  them  a  ransom ! 
If  I  had  only  known  before  I  got  here!  Kitty,  if  he 
doesn't  come  by  morning  I  shall  ride  back  to  him.  For 
his  sake  I've  waited  all  day  trying  to  get  troops,  but 
it's  no  use.  It  means  indefinite  delay.  These  people  are 
snails." 

Kitty  thrust  her  hand  under  Tom's  arm  and  clung 
to  him. 

"  If  you  go,  you  go  to  die,"  she  faltered,  "  not  to 
save  Barry.  It's  futile,  senseless !  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  must  go." 

"  No,  Tom,  no !  I  can't  let  you ! "  Her  breath  quick- 
[316] 


BARRY  GORDON 

ened,  her  hand  quivered  on  his  arm.  She  was  silent  a 
moment,  struggling  against  feelings  prematurely  torn 
to  the  surface  by  his  suicidal  impulse.  Then  she  said  in 
a  low  voice: 

"  Tom." 

"What,  Kitty?" 

"  I  can't  let  you."  She  assumed  an  incongruous  light- 
ness of  manner  to  mask  her  incongruous  feelings.  Incon- 
gruous ?  Yes ;  to  her  he  was  still  a  boy  despite  the  wear 
and  tear  of  his  exile — still  a  boy  in  a  world  of  old  men. 
And  that  she,  a  divorced  woman,  several  years  his  senior, 
should  find  herself  suddenly  so  disturbed,  made  so  des- 
perate, seemed  as  incongruous  as  anything  in  life.  Yet 
she  had  vaguely  known  it  for  years.  For  years  she  had 
dwelt  on  his  memory,  telling  herself,  rightly  or  wrongly, 
that  this  was  her^  first  love.  Into  her  marriage  she  had 
dashed  recklessly,  as  it  were,  to  explore  married  life. 
She  had  not  known  love.  But  she  knew  it  at  last.  And 
now  as  she  hung  on  Tom's  arm,  this  feeling  went  out  to 
him — a  queer,  pathetic,  motherly  sort  of  passion. 

"  Tom,  could  you  love  twice?  " 

His  arm  did  not  move.  Always  unperceptive,  and  now 
utterly  given  over  to  the  barren  suicide  he  planned,  he 
evidently  did  not  suspect  her. 

"  Never,"  he  said  mechanically,  without  even  consid- 
ering her  question. 

Kitty's  bright  face  paled,  and  the  faintest  trace 
[317] 


BARRY  GORDON 

of  wrinkles  appeared  at  the  corners  of  her  eyes  and 
mouth. 

"  But,  Tom,"  she  protested,  "  Muriel  loves  Barry,  not 
you." 

He  inclined  his  head. 

"  She  has  always  loved  him." 

"  Yes,"  said  Kitty,  "  and  if  by  any  chance  he  comes 
back  to  her,  she'll  love  him  till  she  dies,  and  after.  And 
if  he  doesn't  come  back  she'll  love  his  memory.  So  what 
about  you  ?  Are  you  going  to  try  to  be  contented  as  Old 
Faithful — Old  Trusty — Old  Dog  Tray — thanking  your 
stars  when  she  speaks  to  you — smiles  at  you — pats  you 
— feeds  you  with  crusts  of  pity  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Tom  quietly ;  "  if  I  live  I  shall  devote  my 
time  to  my  profession.  I've  been  buried  so  long  that  every 
interest  in  life  will  have  a  new  value.  I  shall  make  friends, 
money,  a  place  for  myself  in  the  workshop  of  the  world. 
I  shall  prove  myself  a  man.  Barry  has  set  me  an  ex- 
ample that  will  always  inspire  me.  For  his  sake  and 
Muriel's  and  my  own  I  shall  try  to  prove  myself  worthy 
of  his  sacrifice." 

Kitty's  heart  was  heavy. 

"  I  wish  you  luck,"  she  said,  "  but  I  can't  bear — I 
can't " 

Then  for  the  first  time  he  felt  the  quiver  of  her  hand 
and  noticed  the  subtle  discords  in  her  voice.  But  he  did 
not  understand,  she  hid  her  feelings  so  well. 

[318] 


BARRY  GORDON 

"  Kitty,  what's  the  matter?  "  he  asked. 

Kitty  withdrew  her  hand,  tossed  her  head,  and  quick- 
ened her  pace. 

"  I  don't  know.  Oh,  it's  nothing,"  she  said  quickly. 
Though  she  felt  weary,  and  life  looked  misty  and  gray 
and  full  of  old  men' and  worldly  wisdom  and  worldly 
folly,  she  was  still  blessed  with  pluck.  And  now,  under 
the  moving  spell  cast  on  all  of  them  by  Barry's  coura- 
geous act,  this  pluck  of  hers  bloomed  into  the  rarest 
bravery  of  woman — a  bravery  which,  in  spite  of  pique, 
could  yet  be  kind. 

"  Good  luck,  Tom ! "  she  said  with  a  tone  and  man- 
ner full  of  light  friendliness.  "  I  shall  always  be  wishing 
you  happiness — watching  your  success.  Good-bye,  now. 
I  think  I  shall  go  away." 

"  Go  away  ?  "  he  said  in  surprise. 

"  Yes,  for  many  reasons.  I  can't  stand  it  here  much 
longer.  The  strain  is  too  great  and  nobody  needs  me.  If 
I  could  do  anything  it  would  be  different.  Tom,  I'm  as 
fond  of  Barry  as  you  are,  and  I  can't  bear  to  stay  here 
and  wait  so  helplessly.  There's  a  train  at  midnight  from 
Gibraltar  to  Paris.  I  think  I  shall  take  it  to-night.  If 
there's  any  news,  they  can  telegraph  to  me  at  once. 
Paris,  I  think,  will  do  me  good.  I  need  the  life,  the 
sparkle — the  old,  old  sparkle  of  everything  but  tears." 
At  the  last  there  was  a  catch  in  her  voice,  but  she 
laughed  it  down.  "  It  may  seem  selfish ;  it  may  seem 

[319] 


BARRY    GORDON 

heartless ;  but  I  suppose  I  am  selfish — yes,  and  heart- 
less, too." 

Tom  remembered  something  preposterous  Mrs.  Beek- 
man  had  said  years  before,  and  the  memory  disturbed 
him. 

"  Were  you  expecting  to  go  so  soon  ?  "  he  asked,  be- 
wildered. 

"  Half,"  she  answered  with  a  nonchalant  shrug.  "  I 
wasn't  sure.  It  seemed  to  me  the  odds  were  even,  but 
now  the  die  is  cast."  Her  warm  blue  eyes  were  tender 
and  indulgent.  She  smiled  at  him  as  if  at  a  child,  the 
disparity  of  their  ages  seeming  greater  to  her  than  be- 
fore. Yet  it  was  not  that  he  seemed  younger. 

Suddenly  she  stopped  and  repeated  her  airy  farewell. 

"  Good-bye,  Tom — good-bye !  " 

Stopping,  too,  he  echoed  the  parting  word,  turned 
to  her  affectionately  and  took  her  hand.  In  that  moment 
they,  too,  had  a  vision  of  love,  but  the  love  was  hopeless. 
Nevertheless,  it  lifted  them  for  a  moment  toward  the 
height  Barry  had  attained. 

Thus  the  circles  ever  widened  outward  into  infinity. 

Before  Tom  knew  it,  Kitty  had  turned  to  join  Muriel 
and  Hicks. 

Hicks  was  heart-broken.  For  once  his  face  and 
crabbed  tone  had  softened.  As  they  hastened  home, 
thinking  perhaps  to  find  news  awaiting  them,  he  said 
to  Kitty: 

[320] 


BARRY  GORDON 

"  Barry  was  my  only  friend.  If  I've  lost  him,  I'm 
utterly  alone." 

In  winter,  much  to  the  chagrin  of  the  Moors,  Tangier 
was  polluted  by  the  presence  of  infidel  tourists,  infidel 
pigs.  The  Hotel  Granada  was  a  nest  of  abominable 
Nazarenes.  But  now  in  summer  the  place  was  purged  of 
these  swine. 

To-night  the  hotel  was  almost  empty.  In  the  office  the 
Spanish  landlord,  a  little  smooth  old  man  like  a  fish  pre- 
served in  oil,  sat  asleep  in  his  chair,  snoring. 

At  the  entrance  a  swarthy  Moorish  porter,  wrapped 
in  a  splendid  white  burnous,  stood  leaning  against  the 
door-post  crooning  to  himself  an  Arab  love-lament, 
weirdly  and  plaintively: 

My  love  cares  nothing  for  me. 

My  love  is  a  white  cloud  vanishing. 

Her  eyes  are  the  eyes  of  a  young  gazelle,  timidly 

gazing,  then  hastening  away. 
My  love  is  a  walled  garden. 

Her  breath  is  the  breath  of  roses  I  cannot  pluck. 
Her  voice  is  like  music  heard  only  in  a  dream. 
Her  kiss  is  withheld  and  given  to  another. 
My  love  is  a  sword  that  pierces  my  heart! 

Save  for  this  romantic  porter  and  the  Spanish  host, 
the  ground  floor  was  deserted.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Beekman 
were  in  their  room,  Hicks  had  gone  to  the  cable  office, 

[321] 


BARRY  GORDON 

and  Kitty  was  on  a  small  paddle-wheel  steamer,  cross- 
ing the  Strait  of  Gibraltar. 

Out  in  the  deserted  garden  of  the  hotel  stood  Muriel 
and  Tom,  still  straining  their  eyes  toward  the  eastern 
mountains. 

The  sky  was  clear  save  for  a  small,  far-off  cloud-drift. 
The  moon  had  risen  and  was  flooding  the  garden.  Near 
them  were  a  stone  seat  and  table,  and  all  about  them 
palms  and  dwarf  orange  trees,  the  oranges  glimmering 
vaguely  in  the  moonlight.  Below  them  lay  the  harbour 
and  curving  shore,  the  white  foam  ever  stealing  against 
it  and  withdrawing.  To  one  side  rose  the  city  pallid  and 
spectral  on  the  hill,  the  emerald  minaret  of  a  mosque 
impaling  the  heavens. 

Behind  them,  hidden  by  the  palms  and  dwarf  orange 
trees,  a  shadow  stole  in  from  the  street.  It  was  Ibrahim. 
He  alone  had  been  embittered  by  Barry's  sacrifice.  At 
first  all  had  been  well.  He  and  Mr.  Beekman  had  agreed 
on  a  ransom.  Then  came  the  news  of  the  exchange  of 
captives.  Yet  still  all  had  seemed  well.  One  prisoner  was 
as  valuable  as  another.  The  money  lay  almost  within  his 
grasp.  But  then  came  a  strange  message  from  Ali 
Hamed,  saying  that  now  no  ransom  whatever  would  be 
accepted.  "  Not  fifty  times  my  debt,"  Ali  had  written, 
"  would  buy  this  other  man  from  me." 

So  the  game  was  up,  the  money  lost.  From  his  dreams 
of  gain  and  power  Ibrahim  had  been  cruelly  awakened. 

[322] 


BARRY  GORDON 

Usually  he  accepted  reverses  with  a  bowed  head — the 
profound  resignation  of  his  race.  But  this  reverse  was 
so  galling,  he  had  been  so  cleverly  tricked,  that  the  sore 
began  to  fester  and  malicious  impulses  seethed  in  his 
gloomy  depths. 

Nor  was  this  all.  He  was  not  only  revengeful,  but  an- 
xious and  sad.  He  was  the  victim  of  another  misfortune, 
seemingly  quite  separate,  but  even  worse.  His  heart  had 
suffered  a  mysterious  family  loss  even  more  lamentable 
than  the  loss  of  money. 

Muriel  was  long  silent,  her  anxious  face  subtly  trans- 
figured by  a  look  of  adoration  cast  toward  the  distant 
mountains.  The  darkness  of  her  suffering  was  relieved 
as  if  by  a  glowing  light  of  inspiration  and  pride.  In  the 
midst  of  her  grief  there  was  joy.  Her  love  had  grown 
immeasurably  greater.  Barry's  act  had  intensified  it  into 
a  calm  white  heat  of  worship  and  passion.  She  loved  him 
as  she  had  never  dreamed  she  could  love.  Until  to-day 
she  had  only  groped  in  the  dark,  trying  to  find  his  true 
nature,  loving  him  on  faith,  believing  in  his  latent  no- 
bility, his  hidden  soul.  But  now  his  soul  was  no  longer 
hidden.  She  seemed  to  see  him  clothed  in  its  light — a 
figure  imaged  above  the  distant  mountains — fair,  mili- 
tant and  strong. 

Then  she  heard  a  stifled  sigh,  and  her  thoughts  re- 
verted to  Tom. 

As  she  turned  he  saw  that,  although  her  face  was  worn 
[323] 


BARRY  GORDON 

by  intense  anxiety,  the  moist  light  in  her  eyes  was  the 
light  of  a  large  tenderness.  Evidently  her  thoughts  were 
solicitous  for  him  as  well  as  for  Barry.  She  seemed  to 
feel  compelled  to  speak  to  him  against  her  will. 

When  she  did  so  her  voice  was  very  low,  but  its  cool 
sweet  quality  was  like  a  breath  from  the  north  penetrat- 
ing this  sensuous  African  night. 

"  Tom,  I've  something  to  say.  It  may  not  be  neces- 
sary; in  fact  I'm  sure  it  is  not.  But  for  your  sake  as 
well  as  my  own  it  seems  best.  Then  there  can  never  be 
misunderstandings.  The  truth  will  be  permanently  re- 
corded between  us."  Her  voice  softened  with  sympathy, 
her  eyes  overflowed  with  sad  affection  for  him.  "  I  want 
to  tell  you  that  I  shall  never  forget  your  old  love  for 
me — a  love  to  which  I  now  know  I  never  responded.  I 
want  to  tell  you  that  always  in  the  future  if  you  need 
me  you  can  count  on  me  as  a  loyal  friend;  but  as  for 
love — whatever  has  happened,  whatever  does  happen — 
my  whole  soul  is  Barry's !  " 

Tom  bowed  his  head  in  submission,  then  drew  himself 
up  with  an  effort  to  regain  his  old  sturdiness.  But  when 
he  smiled,  his  smile  was  like  the  pale  moonlight. 

"  Of  course,  Muriel.  How  could  I  wish  it  to  be  other- 
wise? In  a  way  it  must  be  as  if  I  had  not  come  back." 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"  Yes,  Tom ;  you  are  starting  in  the  morning  to  go 
to  him,  but  even  if  you  return  safely,  even  if  we  see 

[324] 


BARRY  GORDON 

each  other  every  day  of  our  lives,  this  is  a  last  good- 
bye." 

He  took  her  hand,  held  it  a  moment,  then,  in  spite  of 
him,  his  eyes  asked  a  favour  of  her. 

She  did  not  hesitate. 

This  was  a  meeting  and  a  parting,  a  moment  to  him 
so  sharp  with  finality  that  even  reluctance  would  have 
seemed  ungenerous. 

His  kiss  was  the  kiss  of  a  brother,  hers  like  the  touch 
of  a  snow-flake,  though  all  around  them  the  African 
garden  breathed  warm  enchantments. 

They,  too,  had  had  a  vision  of  love,  and  the  love  was 
hopeless. 

Thus  the  spell  of  Barry's  sacrifice  overlay  all  other 
spells,  and  the  circles  ever  widened  outward  into  in- 
finity. 

Only  Ibrahim  had  remained  uninspired.  When  he  saw 
them  clasp  hands  he  smiled  with  a  lewd  cynicism  and 
shrank  deeper  into  the  shade  of  the  orange  trees.  Ah, 
if  the  American  who  had  robbed  him  of  his  captive 
could  come  and  see  them  now ! 

The  Jew's  smile  was  like  black  magic.  Suddenly,  as 
if  in  obedience  to  it,  a  shadow  appeared  in  the  arched  en- 
trance from  the  street.  Ibrahim,  seeing  it,  stared  as  if 
at  a  ghost. 

The  shadow  at  once  approached  behind  Muriel  and 
Tom.  But  as  they  kissed  each  other  it  stopped  short; 

[325] 


BARRY  GORDON 

then  slowly  it  receded  to  the  wall  and  stood  there  in  the 
dark,  swaying  like  a  palm  tree  blown  by  a  wind. 

As  the  lover-like  pair  withdrew  to  the  hotel,  Ibrahim, 
watching  the  stricken  ghost,  again  smiled,  and  again 
the  smile  was  like  black  magic.  Gradually  unseasonable 
clouds  closed  across  the  moon,  the  garden  darkened,  and 
softly  into  the  night  came  the  crooned  love-lament  of  the 
porter : 

My  love  cares  nothing  for  me. 

My  love  is  a  white  cloud  vanishing. 

Her  eyes  are  the  eyes  of  a  young  gazelle,  timidly 

gazing,  then  hastening  away. 
My  love  is  a  walled  garden. 

Her  breath  is  the  breath  of  roses  I  cannot  pluck. 
Her  voice  is  like  music  heard  only  in  a  dream. 
Her  kiss  is  withheld  and  given  to  another. 
My  love  is  a  sword  that  pierces  my  heart! 


[326] 


CHAPTER    VII 

THE    DEATH    OF    NAOMI,    AND    THE    JEW'S    VENGEANCE. 
THE    AGONY    IN    THE    GAEDEN.        DAWN 

IBRAHIM  waited  till  the  man  came  out  of  the 
shadows ;  then  he  rose,  approached  him,  and  asked 
impassively : 

"  What  miracle  has  happened?  " 

The  answer  was  casual,  listless. 

"  None.  You're  outdone,  Ibrahim — that's  all."  There 
was  no  triumph  in  the  voice.  The  speaker  seemed  stupe- 
fied. 

"  Yes,"  admitted  Ibrahim,  slightly  cowering  under 
the  fact,  "  outdone.  Yet  it  seems  incredible.  Did  one  of 
his  men  release  you  ?  " 

The  answer  was  mechanical,  dull. 

"  No,  one  of  his  women." 

"  Impossible !  Was  there  not  a  guard  ?  " 

Barry  passed  a  hand  across  his  eyes  as  if  to  dispel 
the  figments  of  a  nightmare.  He  seemed  to  be  replying 
without  volition,  as  though  for  the  moment  mentally 
controlled  by  Ibrahim. 

"  Yes ;  but  the  woman  had  a  dagger." 

Ibrahim  smiled  ironically. 

[327] 


BARRY  GORDON 

"  Doubtless  the  stab  was  repaid  with  interest."  As  he 
spoke  the  moon  came  out  and  revealed  his  face.  Under 
his  coarse  black  brows  his  eyes  gleamed  with  satisfac- 
tion ;  between  his  moustache  and  beard  his  lips  were  full 
and  very  pink.  "  Ali  must  have  made  short  work  of  her." 

Barry  shuddered,  and  again  passed  a  hand  across  his 
eyes.  Instinctively  he  drew  up  his  sleeves  and  glanced 
at  his  arms.  From  wrist  to  elbows  the  flesh  was  crossed 
with  ragged  gashes.  He  remembered  that  his  hands  had 
been  bound  at  his  back,  that  he  had  hacked  the  palmetto 
cords  against  the  rocks  behind  him  and  quickly  had  got 
loose.  But  it  was  all  unreal. 

He  slipped  his  fingers  under  the  neck  of  his  shirt  and 
felt  a  furrow  across  his  shoulder,  still  damp.  He  remem- 
bered that  a  woman  had  brought  his  horse,  that  he  had 
caught  her  up  with  him  into  the  saddle  to  try  to  get  her 
safely  away ;  remembered  that  they  had  ridden  like  mad 
along  the  pass  on  the  edge  of  the  precipice,  had  ridden 
like  fury  through  a  black  void.  He  remembered  that  the 
gray  mare  was  lithe  as  a  panther,  and  had  seemed  to 
understand. 

But  then  had  come  a  shot  from  behind.  The  bullet  had 
ploughed  him  here  on  the  shoulder.  Ali  must  have  been 
too  enraged  to  aim  true. 

But  the  second  shot  had  come  lower! 

Ibrahim  saw  beads  of  sweat  break  out  on  his  fore- 
head and  glimmer  in  the  moonlight.  His  face  was  hag- 

[328] 


BARRY    GORDON 

gard,  his  look  vacant.  But  Ibrahim  could  not  surmise 
the  picture  that  haunted  him,  could  not  see  the  wounded 
woman  slip  from  his  arms,  and  go  falling  over  the  edge 
— down — ever  down. 

Barry  groaned  aloud. 

"  O  God !  Wnat  a  death !  Poor  Naomi ! " 

The  Jew  started  back,  stunned.  His  blood  froze  in  his 
veins ;  his  heart  seemed  to  stop  beating.  He  was  suddenly 
filled  with  wild  grief.  This  accounted  for  the  mysterious 
loss  he  had  mourned  far  more  than  the  loss  of  money. 

He  had  just  been  gloating  over  the  death  of  his  own 
daughter ! 

He  drew  away  to  hide  the  turmoil  of  his  emotions.  In 
a  flash  he  saw  it  all.  This  was  the  man  who  long  before 
had  robbed  Ali  Hamed  of  Naomi.  This  was  the  man 
who  had  brought  lier  back  three  years  since  to  Tangier. 
This  was  the  man  for  whose  sake  she  had  left  home  not 
a  week  ago.  And  now  she  was  dead.  And  this  was  the  man 
for  whom  she  had  died! 

Ibrahim's  grief  quickly  gave  way  to  blind  wrath.  He 
did  not  weigh  the  case.  His  grief  and  rage  told  him  only 
that  his  daughter  Naomi  was  dead,  and  that  this  man 
was  to  blame.  The  inner  truth  was  unknown  to  him. 
He  was  ignorant  of  the  extenuating  circumstances.  One 
night  a  man,  at  odds  with  himself  and  life,  had  sought 
oblivion  in  a  risky  adventure — and  had  found  it.  His 
sin  had  been  a  sin  of  youth  and  despair,  and  there  the 

[329] 


BARRY  GORDON 

affair  would  have  ended.  Since  that  one  night  they  had 
not  again  seen  each  other  until  now.  Naomi,  though, 
had  never  forgotten  him.  That  was  the  pity  of  it,  that 
the  immediate  cause  of  her  death. 

But  Ibrahim  saw  one  cause  only.  His  grief  and  rage 
were  entirely  centred  on  Barry.  Yet  he  curbed  himself. 

After  the  first  moment  when  he  had  turned  away  he 
maintained  his  habitual  calm.  Seeing  that  Barry  knew 
nothing  of  Naomi's  parentage,  he  thought  it  best  not 
to  disclose  himself  as  her  father  till  the  moment  was 
ripe  for  vengeance. 

Barry,  no  longer  heeding  him,  paced  back  and  forth 
in  the  garden.  At  length  he  stopped  and  stared  at  the 
doorway  through  which  Muriel  and  Tom  had  gone. 

"  And  now  to  come  back  to  this,"  he  muttered 
brokenly  to  himself,  "  now  to  come  back  to  this !  " 

He  went  to  the  stone  seat  and  sank  down  on  it,  fagged 
to  the  soul.  It  was  not  only  the  long  strain  of  the  rescue 
that  had  told  on  him,  nor  the  stress  and  horrors  of  the 
subsequent  flight.  For  five  days  and  four  nights  he  had 
had  little  food  and  less  sleep.  Save  for  the  dull  pains  in 
his  head  and  the  pit  of  his  stomach  his  body  seemed  to 
have  ceased  to  exist.  Likewise  his  will-power.  He  was  a 
man  made  entirely  of  brain-stuff  and  spirit-stuff  and 
raw  nerves.  He  had  lost  all  sense  of  balance  and  pro- 
portion. Everything  large  in  life  looked  trivial,  every- 
thing trivial  large. 

[  330  ] 


BARRY  GORDON 

The  picture  of  Muriel  and  Tom  standing  here  in  the 
exotic  night,  kissing  each  other,  had  at  once  branded 
itself  on  his  naked  soul.  Instead  of  trying  to  reason,  he 
accepted  it  as  the  crowning  tragedy.  When  they  had 
kissed  they  had  put  the  period  to  his  life.  That  was  all. 
Tom  had  risen  from  the  dead,  and  her  love  had  risen,  too. 
What  else  could  he  have  expected?  Always  he  had  known 
she  loved  him — Tom  the  staunch,  the  sane,  the  reliable. 
All  along  he  had  known  it  was  so,  had  admitted  it  was 
best. 

What  a  fool  to  have  fought  his  way  back !  The  blood 
of  others  had  been  shed  for  him  and  lives  sacrificed — 
to  what  end? 

Sitting  there  limply  on  the  stone  seat,  staring  into 
vacancy,  he  cursed  the  charmed  life  he  bore,  cursed  the 
fate  that  so  often  had  saved  him  from  death.  Ah,  if 
Ali's  first  shot  had  come  truer !  Ah,  if  he  had  died  then ! 
— or,  better  yet,  in  some  earlier  fight ! — or,  even  better, 
if  he  had  never  been  born !  If  ever  a  conclusion  had  been 
foregone  this  had.  It  was  all  so  consistent,  so  diabolically 
well  planned.  No  geometrical  problem  could  have  worked 
out  more  neatly. 

Ibrahim  drew  nearer.  He  longed  to  torture  this  man 
to  the  very  quick. 

"  I  see  you  regret  your  escape,"  he  said,  his  voice  still 
harsh  with  emotion.  "  Doubtless  you  wish  yourself  back 
in  the  keeping  of  Ali  Hamed — even  with  the  prospect  of 

[331] 


BARRY  GORDON 

immediate  death.  AH  could  have  harmed  your  body  only  ; 
this  home-coming  harms  your  soul !  " 

Barry  frowned  up  at  him,  anger  flickering  in  his  eyes. 

"What  have  you  to  do  with  it?"  he  muttered  with 
dull  irritation.  "  By  what  right  do  you  dare  insin- 
uate  " 

"  I  insinuate  nothing,"  said  Ibrahim  more  smoothly. 
"  The  truth  is,  your  courage  has  won  my  heart,  and  for 
your  sake  I  grieve.  Since  your  brother's  return  I  have 
seen  and  heard  much.  I  fear  he  is  more  welcome  here 
than  you.  Every  one  has  spoken  of  it.  My  son,  I  pity 
you." 

Barry  struggled  to  rise,  but  could  not.  He  could  only 
frown  up  impotently  at  Ibrahim. 

"Pity  me?  No.  You're  pleased,  damn  you!  I  believe 
you're  Fate  in  the  flesh,  you  black  crow,  standing  there 
smiling  at  me !  " 

Ibrahim  raised  his  eyes  in  deprecation. 

"  No.  Could  I  have  done  so  I  would  have  warned  you 
before  you  entered  this  garden.  It  would  have  been  more 
kind." 

"  Kind?  "  said  Barry  hoarsely.  "  What's  the  meaning 
of  that  word?  It  has  no  place  in  the  scheme  of  life." 
His  voice  fell  and  faltered.  "  The  end  of  everything  is 
cruel."  Suddenly  he  fumbled  in  his  pocket  and  took  out 
a  coin.  "  Ibrahim,"  he  said,  "  if  there's  a  drop  of  human 
blood  in  your  veins,  do  me  a  kindness.  I  can't  do  it 

[332] 


BARRY  GORDON 

myself  because  when  I  stand  I  feel  dizzy.  Go,  please,  and 
get  me  a  drink." 

Ibrahim  hesitated  a  moment,  then  took  the  money  and, 
assuming  a  servile  air,  turned  to  the  hotel. 

"  Brandy !  "  called  Barry  weakly,  and  Ibrahim  bowed. 
But  even  as  he  did  so  a  new  light  gleamed  in  his  dark 
eyes.  The  chance  had  come. 

Passing  through  the  hotel  to  the  street,  he  hastened 
to  a  Spanish  apothecary  and  procured  a  powder  very 
convenient  in  these  emergencies.  Drop  this  drug  in  a 
glass  and,  though  it  would  at  once  dissolve,  it  would 
neither  cloud  nor  discolour  any  liquid.  Moreover,  it  had 
no  smell.  Yet  it  was  even  surer  than  dagger  or  bullet. 

Returning  to  the  hotel  with  quiet  speed,  Ibrahim 
asked  the  porter  for  a  glass  of  brandy.  The  porter, 
steeped  in  his  amorous  dreams,  fetched  it  mechanically. 
Ibrahim,  paying  him,  took  the  glass  out  into  the  garden. 
As  he  went  through  the  shadows  he  passed  a  hand  over 
it,  dropping  the  poison  into  the  brandy.  Then  he  set 
the  glass  on  the  table. 

"  My  son,  good  night,"  he  said. 

"  Thank  you,"  replied  Barry  heedlessly.  "  Good 
night." 

Then  Ibrahim,  fearing  to  be  found  there,  withdrew 
from  the  garden. 

Barry  did  not  balk  at  the  breach  of  abstinence.  For 
two  years  he  had  scarcely  ever  been  tempted.  Since  the 

[333] 


BARRY  GORDON 

evening  when  he  had  returned  to  Muriel  after  his  long 
wanderings  the  old  craving  had  subsided.  And  this  sub- 
sidence had  been  seemingly  rendered  permanent  on  their 
wedding  day. 

But  now  her  love  was  gone  and  the  fight  finished. 
Possibly  he  might  have  fought  on,  but  why  should  he? 
There  was  nothing  for  it  now  but  to  start  out  again  like 
a  lost  ghost.  Once  more  the  old  derelict  life,  the  aimless 
drifting,  the  sin  and  pain.  Once  more  the  futile  attempt 
to  lose  himself  somewhere  in  the  great  waste  bounded 
by  the  poles  and  the  sunrise  and  the  sunset.  But  the  void 
would  be  even  emptier  than  before.  In  the  old  years 
she  had  never  been  his,  but  now  she  had.  A  day  and  an 
evening  she  had  been  his — almost.  But  then  the  cup  of 
joy  had  been  caught  away  from  him  and  now,  as  though 
by  an  unseen  hand,  this  other  cup  was  offered  in  its 
stead. 

Weakness?  Then  let  it  be!  His  mind  and  spirit  were 
following  his  body  into  numb  non-existence.  He  was  done 
— done!  He  had  no  senses,  no  faculties.  He  was  not  a 
man.  He  was  merely  a  vague  blot  on  this  moonlit  garden 
— a  disfiguring  shadow  on  the  earth's  fair  face. 

God !  How  he  loved  her !  He  loved  her  as  if  with  an 
elemental  force.  His  love  was  like  a  thing  moved  by 
the  central  energy — kindled  at  the  central  flame.  He 
loved  her  like  a  man  of  the  Middle  Ages — a  fanatic — a 
fool! 

[334] 


BARRY  GORDON 

But  now  he  must  go  and  forever  keep  to  far  places 
and  change  his  name.  She  must  never  dream  that  he  had 
escaped  from  Ali  Hamed. 

How  long  he  sat  in  this  half  stupor  he  did  not  know. 
It  might  have  been  a  moment ;  it  might  have  been  hours. 
All  the  lights  were  out  in  the  hotel.  The  porter  had  not 
seen  him.  The  door  was  closed.  .  .  . 

Yes,  the  door  was  closed,  and  only  the  gate  to  the 
street  stood  open.  .  .  .  Yes,  the  gate  to  the  street  stood 
open. 

He  took  up  the  glass  of  brandy  and  gazed  deep  into 
its  fiery  depths.  As  he  did  so  he  unconsciously  began  to 
move  his  lips,  muttering.  The  words  had  little  meaning 
to  him,  but  as  he  spoke  them  something  prompted  him 
to  rise.  The  thing  he  was  muttering  seemed  to  be  a  sort 
of  toast  or  song — ^a  song  appropriate  but  somehow  dan- 
gerous. If  you  offered  this  toast,  you  died.  The  devil  re- 
sponded in  person. 

Barry  laughed  harshly.  Nonsense!  Superstition! 

He  tried  to  recall  something.  No,  there  was  no  music 
to  it.  ...  The  music  was  lost  .  .  .  like  everything 
else.  .  .  .  He  was  merely  a  poor  wretch  muttering  a 
song  he  could  not  sing. 

Instinctively  he  tried  to  put  a  little  humour  into  it, 
a  little  conviviality  and  dash,  but  the  attempt  was  sickly. 
Nevertheless  he  did  succeed  in  raising  his  glass  as  if 
pledging  some  one: 

[335] 


BARRY    GORDON 

Up,  friends,  up! 

To-night  we  sup, 
Tho'  to-morrow  we  die  of  the  revel. 

Rise  for  a  toast 

Tho'  to-morrow  we  roast. 
A  health  to 

He  stopped  short.  He  saw  a  picture  painted  in  fire. 
Suddenly  memory,  awakened  by  the  toast,  flashed  a  scene 
before  his  eyes.  He  saw  a  man  with  a  glass  similarly 
raised.  The  man  was  facing  a  dark  and  menacing  por- 
trait. The  man  was  old  and  out  of  his  mind.  Suddenly 
Barry  heard  the  man's  voice.  The  voice  was  repeating 
these  very  words,  this  very  same  toast  to  evil  incar- 
nate. 

The  voice  was  his  father's. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  this  picture  and  this  voice? 
It  seemed  a  miracle. 

Lowering  his  glass  he  stood  thinking.  This,  too,  was 
a  tragic  night.  This,  too,  was  a  night  chaotic  with  shat- 
tered illusions.  And  the  end,  though  it  might  not  come 
for  years,  would  be  the  same — if  he  drank.  He,  too, 
would  go  down  to  the  grave — hopelessly  beaten. 

To  do  so  seemed  an  outrage,  not  only  against  himself 
but  against  his  father.  His  father  had  forewarned  him 
and  forearmed  him.  His  father  had  looked  to  him  some- 
how to  redeem  them  both. 

Suddenly  Barry  was  torn  by  a  mortal  struggle — 
[336] 


BARRY  GORDON 

torn  as  if  bodily  by  a  thousand  invisible  hands.  He  felt 
he  must  die  if  he  did  not  drink  this  brandy.  Tremor 
after  tremor  ran  through  him.  By  turns  he  was  cold  and 
hot,  by  turns  limp  and  tense. 

Yet  through  it  all  every  faculty  grew  keener.  It  was 
as  if  a  lightning  stroke  had  shown  him  the  vital  im- 
portance of  this  crisis.  All  at  once  he  saw  that  everything 
depended  on  this  terrific  conflict.  If  he  could  win  now, 
he  could  never  be  beaten  as  long  as  he  lived.  If  he  could 
win  now,  in  this  the  darkest  moment  of  his  life,  that 
would  settle  it  for  good  and  all.  If  he  could  win  now 
against  this  sea  of  troubles,  he  could  for  ever  captain  his 
own  fate.  If  he  could  win  now,  for  Muriel's  sake — with- 
out her  love — he  would  prove  himself  worthy  to  have 
loved  her.  He  would  go  into  his  exile  a  man. 

Nothing  in  life  liad  ever  equalled  this.  He  had  fought 
in  battle  and  faced  dangers,  but  he  had  never  fought 
in  a  battle  like  this  or  faced  a  danger  as  crucial. 

The  rescue  of  Tom  had  been  child's  play  compared 
to  the  rescue  he  was  trying  to  make  now. 

Yet  the  clash  was  without  motion  or  sound.  The  fight 
was  on  a  battleground  hidden  in  himself.  He  stood  mute 
and  alone. 

Since  his  father's  death  he  had  never  once  said  a 
prayer.  Whether  or  not  he  did  so  now  he  did  not  know. 
He  seemed  to  seek  outer  aid.  Something  in  him  seemed 
to  act  independently  of  his  mind.  It  seemed  to  send  up 

[337] 


BARRY    GORDON 

from  the  depths  of  this  abyss  a  dumb  appeal  to  great 
heights. 

He  felt  as  if  he  must  die  if  he  did  not  drink  this 
brandy.  The  invisible  hands  were  rending  his  flesh — his 
veins !  .  .  . 

Muriel !  Muriel ! 

He  did  not  speak  her  name  aloud.  It  was  merely  the 
quick  come  and  go  of  his  life-breath. 

He  set  his  glass  down  on  the  table. 

He  had  won ! 

He  felt  weak  and  inert,  but  he  had  won.  This  was 
all  he  knew ;  lie  had  saved  his  soul  from  hell.  Little  did 
he  dream  he  had  saved  his  body  from  instant  death. 

His  force  of  will  now  steadily  grew.  He  crossed  with 
slow  but  sure  steps  toward  the  open  gate — the  gate  to 
his  exile. 

On  the  way  he  paused  and  half  turned,  staring.  The 
door  of  the  hotel  had  opened. 

A  woman  approached  him  and  cried  out  his  name.  He 
recoiled. 

"  Why  did  you  come?  "  he  groaned.  "  How  did  you 
know?" 

She  seemed  to  be  dazed,  half  in  a  dream.  She  seemed 
to  doubt  her  senses. 

"  Barry !  Oh,  is  it  you,  Barry !  Can  it  be  you,  Barry ! 
What  has  happened  ?  "  Her  voice  was  hushed  and  un- 

[338] 


BARRY    GORDON 

natural.  "  I'm  afraid  the  anxiety  has  driven  me  in- 
sane." 

She  paused  in  her  approach  and  stared  at  him  un- 
seeingly,  trying  to  regain  control  of  her  senses. 

"  I've  been  up  all  night,  but,  oh,  I  know  I'm  asleep. 
A  man  seemed  to  come  into  my  room.  He  said  he  was 
your  father.  He  pointed  to  the  window.  I  went  and 
looked  down.  I  saw  a  shadow  here  in  the  garden." 
She  drew  a  step  closer  to  him.  "  Is  that  what  you 
are — a  mere  shadow  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  faltered,  "  a  mere  shadow." 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  then  reopened  them,  and,  still 
seeing  him,  brightened.  Slowly  her  faculties  awoke.  The 
vapours  that  had  gathered  about  her  in  her  long  vigil 
gradually  withdrew.  But  the  invisible  barrier  he  seemed 
to  be  raising  between  them  kept  her  still  half-dazed  and 
apart  from  him. 

"  Barry,  no,  I'm  not  asleep !  No,  I'm  not  dreaming ! " 
she  exclaimed.  "  It's  really  you.  I  know  it  is.  But, 
oh,  what  is  the  matter?  Every  minute  I  have  been  pray- 
ing for  you,  and  now  you  have  come  back  to  me,  and 
yet — O  Barry,  what  is  the  matter?  " 

He  smiled  sadly. 

"  Muriel,  I  saw  you  with  Tom." 

Her  eyes  were  piteous  with  bewilderment. 

"With  Tom?"  she  asked,  dazed. 

Barry  felt  bitterly  conscious  that  he  had  never  loved 
[339] 


BARRY  GORDON 

her  as  he  loved  her  now.  His  body,  mind  and  soul, 
seeming  slowly  to  regain  coherent  life  from  her  presence, 
were  all  being  played  on  by  the  agony  of  his  passion. 

"  Yes,  here,"  he  said  brokenly,  "  telling  him  you  were 
his." 

Muriel  looked  stupefied.  Then  all  at  once  she  under- 
stood, saw  his  mistake.  Instantly  she  was  broad  awake, 
a  real  woman  in  a  real  world.  All  her  spirit  and  courage 
rushed  back  to  her,  flooding  her  with  vivid  love  and  life 
and  light. 

"  Barry !  Barry ! "  she  cried.  "  I  was  telling  Tom  I 
loved  you  \ "  She  came  very  close  to  him,  and  his  whole 
body  began  to  relax.  "  I  was  saying  good-bye  to  him," 
she  added  fervently,  "  for  ever — whether  you  had  lived 
or  died ! " 

Barry  swayed,  shaken  by  happiness  so  acute  and 
sudden  that  it  seemed  akin  to  suffering.  When  he  spoke, 
his  voice  rang  with  a  joy  pitiful  to  hear. 

"  Muriel !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  O  Muriel !  O  God !  " 

He  relaxed  utterly  and  sank  at  her  feet  in  a  swoon, 
spent  by  sleeplessness,  starvation,  and  gladness. 

Instinctively  she  glanced  toward  the  hotel  for  aid. 
As  she  did  so  her  eye  was  caught  by  the  glow  of  the 
glass  of  brandy. 

His  need  seemed  so  urgent  that  she  did  not  hesitate. 
She  knew  nothing  of  his  recent  struggle  or  the  secret 
poison  in  the  glass.  She  knew  only  that  he  had  fainted. 

[340] 


His  voice  fell  to  a  whin  per  like  a  sigh 


BARRY  GORDON 

He  might  be  dying  of  some  hidden  wound.  She  caught 
up  the  glass,  hastened  to  him,  dropped  to  her  knees  be- 
side him,  raised  his  head  on  her  arm,  and  held  the  stimu- 
lant to  his  lips. 

He  opened  his  eyes,  saw  the  liquid  fire,  and  took  the 
glass. 

Muriel  steadied  his  hand. 

But  instead  of  drinking  he  poured  out  the  brandy 
on  the  ground. 

He  lay  back  again,  his  eyes  closed. 

"  It's  nothing  but  a  lack  of  food  and  sleep,"  he  said 
feebly.  His  voice  fell  to  a  whisper  that  was  like  a  sigh, 
but  she  saw  him  smile.  "  It's  nothing  but  this  sudden 
happiness." 

Happiness  was  hers,  too.  Silently  it  overflowed  her 
heart  and  eyes  in  a  warm  rain. 

Sinking  down  beside  him  in  the  African  garden,  she 
drew  him  to  her  breast  and  bathed  his  forehead  with  her 
tears. 

Gradually  to  the  east  over  the  distant  Rif  Moun- 
tains, gradually  over  the  rugged  region  of  his  expia- 
tion, rose  the  light  of  dawn. 


THE    END 


[841] 


